deepundergroundpoetry.com

The Turn
I wish to sink my toes
in the turn, and folds of soil
unknown.
Perhaps, where gravity yields
hinging stones,
and roots are left exposed.
Where memory hasn't
a glimpse,
to lean against, nor hold.
Distant, and adrift
as the quiet hush of dawn.
Will it be a soft, muddied marsh,
heady and thick,
or in a grey October mist?
This I suffer to know.
Will there be beauty there,
distilled, and lingering -
Hiding in the allusive turn?
A place where magnolias bloom,
to mimic the Moon?
For this place unknown,
I do so long -
to go.
Wait.
Is this truly what I seek?
To place my feet
within the maze of twisting turns,
lit by strange hues of orange.
Or is it really a need
to climb the crown of foreign ground
merely to breathe the sweet scent of you?
© 2015 blue angel
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