In Flight

 

Since my poetry has yet to stir you

maybe I should just remove my clothing,

stand at the foot of your bed,

and wait for you.

 

Be still for me.

Don’t now raise my internal complaint

which, like the ocean’s waves,

will forever undulate and ripple

inside.

 

Inhale sharply,

and place your hand just above my breast

where tiny snowflakes make their home

in the summer months of ruin,

and where some small stars find solace

From the Sun’s unforgiving burn.

 

With the soft tips of your fingers,

you will feel the wings of various, scattered sparrows in flight

as they make their way to the surface of my skin,

only to feel

the constant, streaming warmth of you.

 

 

Liz Foster

2007

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Author: circadianrefrain

Female. 26. Writer/Artist

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