Isn’t rounder
or stronger.
Not a face to be afraid
of in its song.
It is kinder,
more gentle,
glow-softened
by petticoat-white
lights, ruffled
as oncidium orchids.

. . . stares out in longing
for a simple kiss,
the precision of nesting tables,
the pin-wheel whites,
along the walkway
that brushed her skirts
as she walked by
and passed through sorrow,
of her life
and you.
The sky in the mirror
is blue, the grass green
and you want
to bring her flowers,
write her a poem
before she leaves.

Talk story

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