Mountains away lives a poet
who cares whether roses live or die,
who knows fallen petals
are not trash but tears.
She scrubs her heart red and raw
so the scars won’t set.
She swallows the sun for her very own smile
and takes snapshots to prove it.
Glinty little brass key
sweaty from my palm
clicks quietly into her quaint lock,
just as I knew it would.
The ancient door that is her will
moans low as I push myself against it.
Never heard such a sacred sound,
nor been wounded with such longing.
The wind howls so chaotic inside her
feathers are torn from birds,
and the powdery ashes of old hopes
swirl to sting my teary eyes.
Her heart is astonishing radiance.
Need as pure as a pink newborn
crying so fiercely there is no sound
until she gulps that first sting of air.
————
rhon drinkwater © 2008
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