Sunday 24 September 2017

Every seven years


 Tales, distant as ships sailed
 upon shared moments, are told
 to nighttime’s  deaf ears.

 My skin haunted with desire
 while beside me you snore
 in small ripples of sleep.

 Regret attacks cells; flesh
 hardens, becomes a shell
 to slough off when next
 spring breaks the ice;
 sends green shoots
 through earth and heart.

 The old flesh
 waves a confederate
 flag; failures take their toll
 yet, as yellow sun
 ignites hope anew,
 we move on
 from sedentary rocks
 to sandy paths.

 This love we devour -
 a lizard
 able to reinvent itself
 with weaving patterns
 that tell our story.

 We, accommodating growth,
 shed old images of self -
 emerge again, blinking,
 smiling, into the sunlight.

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