Here goes...my initiation into the blogosphere. My pledge is to write and write and write verse for the next collection. Ahhh, November - it feels ripe with opportunity, spring like... a southern hemisphere thing, feeling vernal so far north of the equator even with the light in retreat. Subtly changes the planet, and might I just be heeding some deeper urge - starting something new at the end of a season... a hair in the pudding, a molecule drawn toward a larger shift - on the magnitude of magnetic poles ... why not, even now?
Helen holds hands with thunderheads. It helps when she's weak in the knees, lightning running down abductors, running down bones. Even temple guards succumb to such days, soft as pillows - scarlet velveteen on silk sheets. Pink cyclamen bells the air, and Helen cut her traces. Bridget dreams the summer wind. Its susurrate moan rises in waves, swells with tides of sandalwood to chariot the night. She spins rhapsody around its howl, dawns a golden jet stream on spangled festoons of cirrus. Weak knees fly off with yellow wind, before Bridget stills the night. Sicily wets her lips with limoncello, quells the rabble of heartache, the clatter of waiting. She rings goblets like temple bells, makes a sound map for lost days. Her boat of pink sand brims in blood oranges and cyclamen. Lightning festoons the rabble, Sicily finds Helen’s hand.
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