A new blade of grass sprouts
among the snarl of weeds
—widow's weeds.
This mourning is young and soft.
Years will come
to make it old and brittle
—like wind against argil.
For now it's a tender creation,
open and pink.
Even the children
do not play as they once did
—no blowing big bubbles
or laughter filling the sky;
—no catching fun in a bottle
or chasing after the butterflies.
An infant shoot this is
—the fragile tendril of
what came before.
In the evening it bows its head,
screen of darkness
a consolation.
Daylight is far more dangerous,
for the cicatrix is stark, unguarded.
All alone it will linger
a naked residual,
a lament to the dagger, Quietus.

Insatiable colored eyes
— inveigle, beguile —
let me tempt you a while.

Between first light
and the breezy part of afternoon
it will dawn upon you soon.

This was an encounter
of convenience
— solicitor's propinquity —
the price paid was your obedience.

Your independence day
tossed your children away,
into deep dark waters of misery
we were immersed.

~
I'm coming to you,
Oh purlieu blue,
No more walls of Berlin
Shall stand between us,
Your name is a link to happiness,
Just the very thought of you
Reaches beyond the tide
And gives life to children,
Our children.
~

Along a trickling stream,
there's a hushed whereabouts
she likes to routinely gather
her thoughts from, before
assigning her task
to bathing amongst
the shadows.

Today's reflections vastly
withdrew, untwining
such musings,
as a playful breeze
whispered unto her
of an unbeknownst admirer's
dedication.

And so avidly fixed it was
upon the arched swell of
her lower back,
she quite shivered.
But be it a pleasurable fear,
she allowed him such liberties,
and stepped into the light.