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Click hereLight rain on the deck,
chrysanthemums dewy
in damp terracotta skirts.
The dirt smells clean.
The world smells healthy,
wet grass good.
I lean on the rail,
watch the nearest pine tower
spread wide on the charcoal sky.
I loom moonlit against the tree.
The curve of my hair is outlined,
my long nightgown, and bent elbows
silhouetted on the branches.
I feel autumn within and outside
me. I'm enchanted with stars,
the cool night, and my shadow.
I want to make rabbit ears
and flying birds, dance
as if I'm six again,
performing alone in Cadwalader Park
on the bandshell stage,
singing for robins and squirrels.
My shadow smiles at me.
Even if I can't see it,
I know it's wry
because this must be
how Peter Pan felt
when he grew up.
here's a poem impossible not to love / it is worth reading again and again /
a stunning picture
and yes...once you mentioned Peter Pan ,I saw Wendy...all grown up.
Beautiful...
Angeline. This poem seems to exemplify that. Watercolor poetry.(that's a very good thing) Wonderfully done.
have an illustration for this one? alongside your ghosts, this would be lovely :)
As always you create strong images and bring back memories, even the park! I knew a Jill Cadwallader. . . once. . . long, long ago. . . Before I grew up.