Sara Orange-Tip

By Silver Spun Sand
Sun, 16 Feb 2014
- 1262 reads
6 comments
Sitting at my desk...trying to write;
dawn just arrived
in no particular hurry today, but warm,
like a sleepy, southern drawl, and then
she caught my eye.
Remember me, she said,
that soft-shuttered morning, landing
on a pillow on my bed.
How could I not, I mused?
Had she rested here, overnight;
silent as the hearts of the black
monkey grass
and the snake's, slow,
surreptitious glide?
Translucent, transitory,
white, and faintly fragile...
sunlight from a peach-melba dawn
seemed to shine right through her.
Forget her?
Simpler, by far, to straighten
a rainbow, bring peace to the Gaza Strip...
convince bears they don’t like honey...
no, not at all
as, with one stutter of her wings,
she was off, through an open window.
Remained – a hastily scribbled note
in the margin of my book, said:
Sara Orange-Tip was here.
She – the poem; these,
only words.
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Comments
Wistful and lovely Tina.
Permalink Submitted by Parson Thru on
Wistful and lovely Tina. Such wonders are welcome on my pillow any time.
Parson Thru
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This is lovely. I love the
This is lovely. I love the fact that is always her...it's great when they stop by to visit.
Bee
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Been away a few days –
Been away a few days – enjoyed joining with you in this moment of calm pleasure description. Rhiannon
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