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When the newborns come
we bring them to her first
to lower the blanket wrapped
package into skeletal arms.
Covered in paper skin and propped
with tapestry pillows, these arms
held lovers as if life depended upon not letting go,
arms muscled with the weight of children
thrown into the air, carried on hip.
Rings slide freely,
trapped behind swollen knuckles
of fingers that typed with relentless passion.
Steel and riverstones,
longing and loss
searching and searching.
We have heard stories,
how she laughed too loudly,
said too much.
She now smiles in silence
with tears trapped in deep grooves
that carry the words no one will hear.
I write this today
to tell children of children
how their foreheads were cleansed
by her last poems of joy
holding on to the living miracles
as if life depended upon not letting go.
~
have taken my pitiful attempt of describing such a vivid portrait painted...thanks...blue
realized I did not stick to my original 12 line rule-- thanks for the comments!
When the newborns come[/B]
we bring them to her first,
wrapped tight and lowered into skeletal arms--
arms once strong with the weight of children
held lovers as if life depended upon not letting go
these rings trapped behind swollen knuckles
slide loose and free as her verse
typed with relentless passion
[I]Steel and riverstones,
longing and loss[/I]
her silent poetry, dissolved like salt in tears
christen our newborns
we bring them to her first
I've been "off poems" and back to writing stories for a while, but this may bring me back. Your writing flows so effortlessly, surely this is "the art that conceals art!"