Blue passion flower, anvil
for butterflies delivered
by a soft yellow-dressed afternoon. 

I think of the amethyst cross
between her breasts,
coffee in small rococo cups

and wood smoke that braids
her hair a fragrance of olive.
Her hands speak

like keepers of my old dreams.
Let the bad winds blow, they say,
they will never open scars.

Gordon Mason

If you have any comments on this poem, Gordon Mason would be pleased to hear them.

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