Wayward Hours

like a pretty handkerchief
now creased
lace edgings immolated
lain too long on the pyre
of her own succulence


3 thoughts on “Wayward Hours

  1. a river and its tributaries

    the magic capture
    of an artist is always
    knowing that surrender is
    the sure path matter takes
    when exhaling electrons
    into the petal fleshes
    that we thresh
    our soul from cages with
    each care weep
    sweeps in to fold
    our impressions and
    what a finger makes
    and binds to a language
    without words
    using pollen
    and its sea of tiny mouths
    to paint
    in the cut angles
    of the Sun
    at the turns
    slow squeezing
    squinting breezing
    easing the brush
    to slow parade
    each and every memory

  2. Immaculately pressed & dried petals/ preserved for posterity/ to relish the textural fragrance of/ bond evolved.

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