When you left, showers arrived in a hot mist
Which bound my grief in threads of silk.
The wind buffeted me, I was too dizzy to stand.
My cocoon, sticky and new, clung blindly to a branch
Until a harsher rain washed me clean away.
All that remains are my shoes running after you.
Oh, that's *good*, Carol! Just wonderful.
ReplyDeleteThanks so much! I find writing poetry really stretches my ability to focus and whittle, focus and whittle.
ReplyDeleteAnd I enjoy painting pictures with open-ended interpretations. (g)
Love the imagery!
ReplyDeleteThanks for reading!!
ReplyDelete