The poor apparitions.  It would be easier

if they ceased to care and took their nowhere

as the end of being here.  Substanceless,

 forgetful, they miss what has come to pass,

and nothing remains of them but pranks?

They dull cold mirrors; barely sway candle flames;

on anniversaries appear in dreams;

in thin involvements bumble under glass,

or, unnoticed, they wreath wraith the places where

Spring happens.  Berries darken in the hedge;

on warmed eggs, birds bustle and nudge;

and they stay outside the misted windows

where the living, curved each to each, embrace,

tongue to tongue transfuse and burn like flowers.

◄ your-hope

Moth-Print Spring ►


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Cynthia Buell Thomas

Sun 3rd Dec 2017 17:23

What a way with words! But the imagination has to come first: no thinking, no point in a stockpile. The combination is 'to die for' - almost.

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