Tuesday, March 5, 2013



Lips pursed, they slant forward in the vase.
reluctant to release their breath.
The water ( bath mild)
seems pleasing enough
to distill tension.
I play the best love songs
of Bocelli
hoping they'll open, grace the room
with chalices ready
to toast the light, the life in voices
recovering from a long silence.

These flowers were not meant
for the lady weeping at the crossroads
or the demented brush
of an artist going insane.
They were cultivated to become
the golden primavera, vitality
taking us for her shadow, her protégé.

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