Tell the truth, but tell it slant. Emily Dickinson

 

Born, bloom, die

All in the one day

Blurs a glass darkly

A physician’s proof of breath

Marked by her girlhood’s fleeting fancy

Of a garden romance

A moonlit dance

With Chopin playing lightly

In the darkness

And no rectangular wooden box

To be seen

Instead a thing with feathers

Whistles through my head

Across the broad Atlantic of time

I will come to share a little fun

Exchange some raised eyebrows of expectancy

And like the look of your ravaging femininity.