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Open Poetry #8
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blossom together; with l.
| Open Poetry #8 |
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blossom together; with l. |
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bsquirrel
since 2000-01-03
Posts 7855
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From the earth, on wavering branch, do you see the two buds closed like eyes? The branch is as old as the sky and the ground, and the buds are both so new. I've watched them through the pane, as lightning breathes like a goddess in waiting. I've watched them under cold moonlight, stirring (though barely) in the nighttime breeze. I've watched them while friends talked, contemplating things beyond ourselves, and I've watched them as friends drifted apart, but they stay. They stay. I imagine my girl upstairs in bed, reading a book of poetry. The pages are torn from over-use, the paper softened with tear trails. She wears at her throat a golden thing, like a bud waiting for spring. I imagine my boy sitting under a tree, smiling up into the California sun. If she put down her book, stood at her window, would she see the two swaying in rain's breeze? If he looked away from the blinding sun, would he see them glistening with nature's tears? He holds his hands to himself, holding himself in the sparkling fragile rain. She presses her hands to the cool window and breathes a soft pattern on the glass. He can picture two flowers opening together -- colorful, full -- on branch-like stone. One deep red, one deeper ocean-blue, she can see them opening there. The rain would tap and drip and fall and wetly collect ground's petals. The wind would gently push at leaves, exposing the blooms for the world to see. Together, purple, regal, solemn, beautiful, free, alone, unafraid. Together, strong, unashamed, steadfast, ready for anything. He pauses from his poetry, smiling to know what she brings out in him. She stops to smile at her fogged-over window, and traces words for him in the mist. He imagines his lips on the glass -- the rainwater taste of her face. She can already feel her hands in his hair, tossed about by the storming wind. The lightning would reflect their spring, their fall, their winter, their steamwaiting summer. The moon would reveal their years and future, bright under cold silver lights. Do you see them blossom? Like packages closed tightly now burst in joy. The petals unfurl to touch each other, joining the two flowers by closeness alone. I watch these two through my pane, wondering if I'll ever feel the same. I watch these two through my clouded window, knowing the feeling isn't really that far away. My girl lies asleep upstairs. The light is off. The book is closed. My boy has closed his eyes to the California sun. Night falls, and he sleeps contented under the tree. Yes, it will happen to me. |
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Janet Marie Member Laureate
since 2000-01-22
Posts 18554 |
I imagine my girl upstairs in bed, reading a book of poetry. The pages are torn from over-use, the paper softened with tear trails. She wears at her throat a golden thing, like a bud waiting for spring. I imagine my boy sitting under a tree, smiling up into the California sun. If she put down her book, stood at her window, would she see the two swaying in rain's breeze? If he looked away from the blinding sun, would he see them glistening with nature's tears? He holds his hands to himself, holding himself in the sparkling fragile rain. She presses her hands to the cool window and breathes a soft pattern on the glass. He can picture two flowers opening together -- colorful, full -- on branch-like stone. One deep red, one deeper ocean-blue, she can see them opening there. ==================== He pauses from his poetry, smiling to know what she brings out in him. She stops to smile at her fogged-over window, and traces words for him in the mist. He imagines his lips on the glass -- the rainwater taste of her face. She can already feel her hands in his hair, tossed about by the storming wind. The lightning would reflect their spring, their fall, their winter, their steamwaiting summer. The moon would reveal their years and future, bright under cold silver lights. Do you see them blossom? Like packages closed tightly now burst in joy. The petals unfurl to touch each other, joining the two flowers by closeness alone. I watch these two through my pane, wondering if I'll ever feel the same. I watch these two through my clouded window, knowing the feeling isn't really that far away. My girl lies asleep upstairs. The light is off. The book is closed. My boy has closed his eyes to the California sun. Night falls, and he sleeps contented under the tree. Yes, it will happen to me. ================================= yes, indeed oh how i love when you write like this, stirs my soul me |
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rosepetals25
since 2000-05-31
Posts 3076PA |
Very nice poem.. I loved your descriptiveness... You painted the picture so clearly. I'm adding this to my library.  rosepetals25 |
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serenity blaze Member Empyrean
since 2000-02-02
Posts 27738 |
as pretty as songbirds singing together, mike. and my compliments to "l."--this is beautiful...and I exit smiling...e ya later. |
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bsquirrel
since 2000-01-03
Posts 7855 |
Butterfly Slippers, Thanks for reading. rp25, Thanks for keeping. S'en, Thanks for e'ing. thanks for Mike ing |
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