Friday, December 27, 2013

Abstract with Melting Sun

                                                watercolor, 18x24, Janet Snell, 2013

Poem Made of Dream

This is the moment
you are most
systems thudding blood,

breath stretching to a yawn.

A tear made of the day
escapes like the slow start of rain
and your fingers curl slightly.
Around what?  Street sounds
doppler away, also refusing to be held.
There's no fear of the numbness
that creeps through you now,
let it come,
loosening muscle, thinning thought.
At this hour, the mind talks in riddles
its language a mystery
that leaves you
breathless, nightshirt pounding
through to the very dreams

that traveled so far to touch you.

Red Booth Review


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