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Saturday, October 17, 2009



You live the poem that fires my soul,
A seamless, intertwining ode, in language too sublime
For tongue, an angel’s ears, or hand to scroll,



If one were so inclined, as I, to share a song transcending time.
Embroidered silk, so thin, the veil,
Upon which your sweet spirit rhymes the textures
Of your life and dreams: The child’s first Spring, a fairy tale,



New mother’s* hope, the heart impaled; admixtures
Of joy and despair, loss and gain, divine, mundane.
At the flutter of your spirit, well up words I can’t contain.



Would you call this dream Vanity, and hope for words more apt? —
That within your ever-flowing, silken folds, I be enwrapped;



Resonant, enraptured, thinly veiled from toe to head,
Echoing the piercing heat of every pulsing thread.

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