I want to listen to the sound
of your fingers pressing
against the strings, false notes intact;
live, without amplification.
That is your voice, the story
that is you in all your glorious
and sacred imperfection.
Read to me aloud from
the book of your life
a chapter at a time.
And when you are done,
start over from the beginning.
A never ending melody.
You don't need to be draped
in doll clothes or walk on stilts
to merit attention.
Your simple essence curls up
and purrs against my spine-
Pale bare legs and cotton khaki.
Sparkling water and crooked smile -
thrilling me more than some sideshow
or spectacle; more soothing than
any ceremonial rite.
This is a reflection of a past event or a wish of the future ?
ReplyDeleteLoosely based on true events, with a healthy dose of poetic license. Thanks for asking.
ReplyDeletePlease find a muse; be it music, love, art, literature, or a cryptic postcard with no return address. Your verse is sorely missed.
ReplyDeleteThank you. These things ebb and flow, seemingly on a schedule all their own. The good stuff comes often at a price which is dear to my emotional well being. Especially when the only way and place I can express it is here.
ReplyDelete