she was the self
- looking back
a thin hand
that held mine, shyly
but absolute, definite in feeling
butterflies are said to be the souls of birds
she was mine; my soul-bird
I know her, or knew her, or shall
and if I fall from this sky
newer wings will flutter open
I will slide into a life that fits as perfectly as she did
a black bruise on my chest, a warm palm
wings, as yet unfolded, wait a while
4 comments:
beautiful. touching.
Lovely, Claire, as are you.
Thanks for that, Claire. Very beautiful and eloquent.
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