Slow Turn Poem by Bianca Fiechter
Slow Turn
Cool crisp unmowed
Emerald green grass
Too sharp to tickle
Too soft to itch.
Waves of sound
Translate into
Sensual language.
Skin awash in
Gooseflesh
Tiny puckers reaching
Stretching searching for
Warmth, touch.
Eyes open wider
Seek color, activity
A new perspective.
The mind soothed
Of it’s savagery
If only for the momentary,
Brief respite
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4/23/2024 12:45:41 PM # 1.0.0.1119
