Wednesday, February 19, 2014

Whither Spring?

The desert waits for the caress of rain, as skin waits for the touch of fingertips. 

I miss your touch
all taciturn
like the slow migration of birds
nesting momentarily
upon my breast
then lifting
silver and quick--
sabotaging the landscape
with their absence
my skin silent without
their song
a thirsty pool of patient flesh
- Jewel


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