White Lady…


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
she will.
Until one bright, new spring day; luck
shall let you meet again.

Poppy August 2013

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