The Bottle
This one lingers in a dusty
bargain box, and its distortion shows
where the color pales.
Blue, green and gray combine,
then fade to clear
like river mist on a fall moming.
Its elusive face haunts with unfamiliarity,
yet seems known to her,
almost a part of her yearning heart.
He no longer needs her words, her warmth,
and she mourns for the children they never had.
Alone, she goes searching
for a conneCtion nobody else cares to make.
Orphans, fragile and flawed, excite her fIngers.
Each, she insists, must be wrapped like a precious gift.
She arranges the brood carefully
on the kitchen window sill,
waits each moming for the fIre of the sun
to wake them.
They dance along the walls
of her plain prison,
and, on each birthing day,
she feels the music, songs the rivers
and wind in the trees sing to the earth,
to the spaces that need to he filled with light.
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