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Click hereI
I should call this ache,
"Little Agony Maria
on her perpetual, barbed swing."
II
Through my pane,
night comes Inn, when rooms
should remain vacant til seven
or nine.
III
Paper flowers,
scissored like snow --
some strewn. Roses are misconstrued.
IV
Limbs fracture
and fragile lines ice me
to the hearth. I should pen this
for January...
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copyright d. dixon
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are like little flowers made of most fragrant words. I am so glad to see you on the NP list again.
II and III are quite lovely. As always, though, I find your poems intriguing. Well done.