Hidden are her depths
a little out of touch
always curious; flaunting on the eye
of reality –
She is who she is
brown bed of earth she sleeps.
Skeins of petals fallen
collected endings, both
exquisite and excessive.
Softly muted, hastily trodden underfoot
yet not to die: in dormant she but lies.
Stands open the mouths of
cold stone men.
You who stare about her visions view
of flowing veins – she dances arabesque.
Given not to utterance: yet sleep her time
Until one bright, new spring day; luck
shall let you meet again.
Poppy August 2013