‘Come here love…’

Come here love:
the evening itches on,
like limbs inching unseen,
each stretch kept under quiet wraps,
his purr lending peonies, their
wings rinsing the other’s dark silence.
 

*   *   *

Now, the window thyme
in morning sun. Now,
the long trunk but an X-axis. Yet:
a single sprig is yenning Up.
 

*   *   *

I dropped the breakfast bowl.
It broke,
I didn’t notice.
 
My heart,
long-lingering, undropped:
rest here and notice.
 

Thanks to three conversation partners who inspired me to write these three poetic replies. The first poem is a collage made up of her prose. The other two were written yesterday morning in response to certain inquiries. There is thyme on my window sill and I did drop my breakfast bowl onto the floor. My thoughts had long been elsewhere.

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