Literature
Untitled 3
Cold as ice, my hand on your breast-
In dewy skin I found you long ago,
But now shriveled as so many beetles-
Join you like blankets in eternal rest.
When I turn you over, in your dusty wooden music box,
And your fingers stiff- I do remember.
I never forget. Your current like a tempest;
Flows like snowmelt over warm rocks.
Smelling like all the pressed roses,
Between the pages of my secrecy,
And crumble when I cannot- I couldn't.
What danger from quicksilver poses.
I miss your singing in my old oak tree,
And the amber rain, falling in sheets you slept in.
And when the roots grow stronger- I remember.
Green, green, begins as far