this poem is made of maple
syrup sky and black forest
on rye and the whispered
why of granulated grace.
of empty space. of quiet
lines that trail true
north, wax forth and wane
only by a frosted slice of moon.
too soon, she’ll murmur
something in your ear in starspeak
-braille, the unfailing echo of a
startled song. and you’ll long
for the somethings she’s spoken,
the broken pieces that no longer
rhyme. and you’ll think the day’s gone
soft at center; but there’s still time.
in November, we poem.
You sure haven’t lost your touch, especially with “starspeak-braille, the unfailing echo of a startled song”
Thank you both! 🙂
Oh this SINGS.
Thanks so much.
This is you, at your best! This is why I ADORE your words. SHARING THIS ONE! Write on, my friend! Nobody does it better!
Thank you so much, Marie. Any time I’m stuck, I lean on “this poem is…” They are just so much fun to write.
I have swooned over this several times now, these sweet nothings. That snacky first stanza is my fave.
Thanks, chica. I have long thought that all of these “this poem” poems are pretty much for you.
You are so talented. I cannot stop reading it.