You might call it "dent"—
something left by pure accident;
Even object that negative space,
has hardly any anatomical place
—like Creative Mind drifted elsewhere,
showing unfathomable lack of care—
Rather, such hallows of grace
impressed upon a blessed face,
are imprints the Sculptor leaves,
when oh so very pleased!
God bless those woman’s feet
O to wash those feet
Ten beautiful digits squeaky clean
Perfectly manicured and painted nails
I've never know a woman
Not to be putty in
Monks hands after foot massage
Oils rubbed in with care
Every piggy has its turn
Promise to delight the senses
Let me worship those feet
wings narrowed to a point
at the small of your back
spreading feathers over
smooth boulders, seamless
beneath the skin
ivory fence-post ribs wreathed
in roses and ivy and Grecian plaster
vertebrae stacked upon vertebrae stacked upon stone
heedless of your bending, twisting form,
my Stonehenge written in your bones.
The Little Hollow
Fossil with no function
Once a junction
Between two souls
Two minds, one whole
A bond crossed by a bridge of blood
Now an empty hollow
That my fingertip follows
A reminder that you will always be loved
The same way you will love one day
The one that, beneath that little hollow, sleeps.
A List, Oh Yes, A List.
This mini challenge is for every single Proser sunflower face under the sun, but I am singling out the peeps I DEFINITELY want to see entries from!
...tag other people too, my little bunnies!
Listening to Sibelius
Cream blooming like
dense jasmine across the
hill sloping downward from your nose to cheek.
Violet stretching like
jutting catmints from the
long shadows your eyelashes cast.
Pink painted like
amaryllis in languid strokes
someplace between your chin and nose;
spring blooms when you blink.