Sun or
moon wise,
praying her tears,
or smiling her bliss out
She’d be down on her knees,
curled fingers clenched in a fist
Ready to bathe her mind’s drafts
Into the loneliest dew-soaked dusk
then let the ardours of her own heart
soar high to whisper and ripple about
how he’d learned to paint her poetry
and carve marble, but failed to find
a single song in the
world’s patter
to sing along with his own blood.
Then he sent summer words
and walked in his
garden
to sign a new promise
with a rose thorn
so sharp and
warm yet
scarlet.
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