April 30, 2007

She is a poem

She Is A Poem


She walked and wore turquoise:
One of those in-between colours.
I read her palm and learned how her life
Moves in fits and starts,
And how she writes.

She aims for people.
Vessels of their walking story,
Bodies bind their characters to flesh,
With restlessness in skeletons,
Abandonment in hair,
And each a rhyme or stanza toned by observation
She writes down.

Falling in love was a broken nib:
Freedom; denial,
Falling out a splash of ink,
Electric fingers loosing creativity,
Sketching out herself as slowly she condensed.

A real life winds images to skin,
And now her surface marked and printed by her own event,
I see.

Older, she makes for her favourite tree,
Eyes and notepad waiting to be filled by
Poems passing with their children in the park.

The sun shines as she steps along the path,
walks, and wears turquoise:
One of those in-between colours.
I've read her palm and learned how her life
Moves in fits and starts,
and how she writes.
She is a poem.

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