poetry

shapes in the clouds

A thought-I-saw...

    She’s absence of crowds.

  A thought-I-saw;
An auroral ripple;
      A stipple of rarest light
  Over dew-bladed glade through tree-spaces;
          Traces of refunded innocence;
    A feather-fight in the leaves;
              The weave of breeze along my spine.

              The blush on a half-moon;
    Secrets heart-slid across the floor,
          Yore-shadows at bay beyond the glow;
  The haunt of time at the window;
      Wafts of want on unfaded bow;
An echo of bolt and boom
  From childhood-loomed storm-wonders.

  A collection of candy
      In fragile-pink fingers;
    A living, careening carousel;
          A dream that lingers well into grey;
    A casted ream of smile-spun spells;
      Stellar bells hung from a star;
  The hypnotism of fire from far away.

  A length of laughter;
An album of longing-after;
      A saltless, restless rosemary tear;
  Fear hung by a noose in my chest;
          The safest way through the wilderness;
    A waifish kiss on a wound;
              A proof of heaven too soon.

              A swoon on a night-sweat;
    A thousand-fold bet wagered and won;
          Bubble-gunned down in the sheets;
  Bars of glass and a handkerchiefed hammer;
      A breathless, made-it getaway run;
A rung to freedom and freckled sun;
  A stammer on the tongue.

    She’s shapes in the clouds.


Previous Post:
    Poetry: Most-Wantedly
        https://windstrewn.com/2018/10/04/most-wantedly/


5 comments on “shapes in the clouds

  1. Lovely meditation of ‘her.’ Especially the dark part:
    “The haunt of time at the window;
      Wafts of want on unfaded bow”

    Liked by 1 person

    • Thank you, Amaya, for pausing on it; and, especially, for making room to affirm by comment. Such are the little treasures I horde in sharing.

      Not sure who I was thinking about when I put this one down last night…but I’m sure I’ve met her. Perhaps, I’ll meet her again when I trip into the bus’s path. For now, a quiet evening with imagination, unavoidably stilted on memory, provides for a terrifyingly beautiful approximation. My words are a dim flashlight even still.

      Blessings to you and yours.

      Like

  2. This wispish web of words
    leaves me breathless
    with wonder
    as I watch the greying sky
    begin to lighten, pinken, glow
    with the rising sun

    Liked by 1 person

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