Her Cabbage Patch Windermere peaks are a perfect place to cry, I tell her. And she is. We’re eating breakfast, and can I hear the clock tick as haired seeds of dandelions fly, curl on itself, soft as lip balm. We are not poor, but in these times, we live as though we are, so I play the piano and you pour cups of tea, as pigeons trash the cabbages. My music is formless, like words. It’s her bridal heart, the first half of joy is a wave. One part of the brain lights up. She spent her final years in an asylum, running up and down the hallway, and loving peace and quiet, when life’s puzzles were easy, when saints stared down at you.
Written for dVerse Found Poetry. This poem is created from the first line of the first poem of each month during 2022. I’ll try to add the links tomorrow as it’s time for bed now. ©Misky 2023 Shared on Twitter #amwriting @midjourney @dversePoets
Leave a Reply