Menu

curls

when my hands were
hot coals,
that burned and scorched
any living thing
she held them,
with little regard
for what blisters
grew on her own.

when my orchid
was dying,
going brown at its petals
ready to be
thrown into the compost
she stayed
and watered it,
so gently spraying
each lost little flower
until it bloomed
again.

when I swelled
with joy
and life,
she stood and shared
so simply
never questioning
never asking,
never doubting.

her love
lives
in each
golden curl
in her
freckled silk-skin
her smile,
dresses of orange and blue
so stark and beautiful
against the grey of the world.

they named her
fortuitously,
it would seem.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: