The envelope folds, flying to the pen pal
Awaited are sunflowers and paragraphs.
But a different scent lingers the air,
Uncanny clouds of recognition silently glare,
And the empty eyes beg and stare-
'Saltwater, one black dot, and midnight rum.'
To which the fingers tremble,
'I'll erase the thought.
It will be rubbed and torn to death,
Or burn away my sunflower wreath.'
'Why not,' she thinks, 'I might just cover the stain
With a paper just as white, and ever so thin.
And as long as the eyes don't see,
The mind won't recall, and the heart might forget-
Yes, what I can't hear, and none can spell,
Concealed it must stay, and we shall forget.'
'Mon ami, the sunflowers are golden', the ink flows,
'the rose is just a barbed ruby.
It's the drenched downpour or the clear sky,
No gray, or in between.
The fields will die, so will the fire-
foregone would be the shine.
And alone shall remain,
Your tapestry with barbed rubies, all blood stained.
I won't open this sheath, for the heavens' sake,
Please send back our sunflowers instead.'
YOU ARE READING
Cottage Chronicles
PoetryLife's chronicles from love, sorrow, anger, guilt, shame, happiness buried in a poetic cipher. Would you like some words and wine, on wooden floorboards? ©️ Feronia Grey
