Down

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She wraps herself in night,
a sacred gown, a feathered
comforter of stars.

She wraps herself up tight
on holy ground, a treasured
breeze of sky-blown scarves.

She traps herself in flight
of mottled brown, and hides
her words in jars.

……..She maps herself in ink
……………and pen-pricked
………………………….scars.

 

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Prompted by Poetic Asides.

 

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2 Responses to Down

  1. Gia says:

    De, this poem is a treasure. It is so beautiful. I love the double meaning in “comforter.”

    These are more favorites:
    “on holy ground, a treasured
    breeze of sky-blown scarves.

    She traps herself in flight
    of mottled brown, and hides
    her words in jars.”

    “pen-pricked scars”

  2. A beautiful poem about a down poet! I suppose every writer feels this way at some point – like they should hide their words in jars and just huddle down.
    I know she’s supposed to be “down” but this made me want to huddle down with her – it’s so beautifully described!

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