deepundergroundpoetry.com
Lone
I don't take much time alone,
out on the green, cup of tea,
fledgling sparrow, fledgling wren,
some sort of paved together
self reflection.
The papavers are out again,
as if predicting rain
as if they're Karen Smith,
as if they might be a weatherman.
I let blousy bruises
match mine,
I let campion sit on my chin while
fairy footed foxgloves
swing under a dog rose.
I let,
I let
it in and out,
the seaweed vines of our wine season,
the quiet in the absence,
some days for the better,
some days for the worse,
and I come with gratitude
for both time and space,
and the ability to sit in my own company
after a long, long time away.
out on the green, cup of tea,
fledgling sparrow, fledgling wren,
some sort of paved together
self reflection.
The papavers are out again,
as if predicting rain
as if they're Karen Smith,
as if they might be a weatherman.
I let blousy bruises
match mine,
I let campion sit on my chin while
fairy footed foxgloves
swing under a dog rose.
I let,
I let
it in and out,
the seaweed vines of our wine season,
the quiet in the absence,
some days for the better,
some days for the worse,
and I come with gratitude
for both time and space,
and the ability to sit in my own company
after a long, long time away.
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