| 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.
