Sunday, November 22, 2020

Time Stood Still

And why was the rain falling so precisely?
Like the second hand on a clock
The unnatural way the raindrops
hung in the air
then plopped into
the basin of brown, white and pink
water forgotten long ago,
or disappeared into a yellow hue,
the sky against black
bent silhouettes
Fed the overgrowth of flowers
like some feminine broth
poured deep in the throat
of a fat green sponge
It was a garden to write music in
the daffodils trusted it
the roses were happy there
and the flies hummed sleepily
Their obese bodies riding the
warm air current as waves
M Schiotis
Topic(s) of this poem: garden

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1/23/2021 2:56:50 PM #