Posted in art, Irony, poetry, women

Portrait

“Mademoiselle Boissiere Knitting” by Gustave Caillebotte

Old woman, bent with needle,
spinster, maiden, Mademoiselle,
intent on plaiting fictions.

Each stroke demands restraint.
She is compliant,
bound in proper bonnets, sturdy bows,
and stems an urge for wild unraveling.

Yet blushing cheeks,
nacreous rainbows in her purls,
their molten, platinum shimmer,
betray a piqued suppression.

Too late for one revolution,
too early for another,
she can’t escape the irony—
that immortality’s fabled truths are
are belied by deft impressions.

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Posted in metaphor, Nature, poetry

Remember

Photo by Tim Mossholder on Pexels.com

Almost lost amidst dead leaves
and severed limbs,
a nest felled by the storm,
barely more than twigs.

On other walks, it would have been
a mass to be avoided,
side-stepped in the rain.
But reason,
shamed by distant fluttering,
let sentiment compel
a search for life
within that sodden lump,
so plainly delicate and still.

How to quell despair,
when prodding leaves no doubt,
spills a hash of shattered shells,
a mother’s beak still full?

I laid small stones by the debris,
a bed too frail for splitting skies,
crushing hail,
and,
heeding wings,
gazed far aloft at hope.

©2021 All Rights Reserved

Posted in Nature, poetry, writing

Courtship

I caught you grooming earlier,
nose fixed to your fur,
engrossed in washing cheeks
and nether regions,
intent on looking clean,
and sharp, and able
for another
behind a rose bush,
shyly peering out.

When both of you had gone,
I spread a lovers’ feast
of leafy greens and ripened berries
through the clover,
knowing you’d return
when no one would be there to see
your dusk-tinged tryst,
or lament its fertile course.

Nature? Or enchantment?
But aren’t they the same?

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