Monday, November 22, 2010

It is possible

that you are the frame, thin and dark around the edges

and most would say you are not the mat, stark, plain,

except you do have a talent for aiming the eye towards

what is significant;

most people would say you are most definitely

the leaves that sway from tender stalks, suspended

in a westbound wind, red hair going green and gold

in becoming;

I, cannot imagine you

as a broken silver egg, but imagine you might see

yourself a casement for the winged wonder plucked

by the beak of an ancient mariner, its eyes open

to shifting sands;

an invisible potion inside a beaker is what you are though,

not the beaker but the liquid inside, and is, is what fills

a painting with maybe, pure research, suspended

feather, stirring each of us to belief.

---for Carol Peters

love, mary

10/10

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