Shadows of spoken words collect
over the windows, in the door,
on my lap and in my eyes
until lucidness fades into worlds
of dream and prayer. I pray for somewhere.
I dream of someone — finding family
with hugs saying you are part of me,
the better part and alone I am
out of order. Somewhere else
I warm my hands around a mug
and close my stooped over eyes
steeping in steam from fine herbal tea. My tea
is weak these days. I dream of someone —
more than one — missing from my tea:
rose hips, orange blossom, camomile, cinnamon.
Sitting here with darkened eyes
and ears dripping undigested words
I hover over only hot water,
forcing it through my lips with tilt
and a faint, hissing-suck. I pray
for somewhere to soak my skin
with skin of others in loving broth
where crumbling words and pale pasta letters
are only the surface-warming and nurturing of
the hearty soul, heart and mind underneath.
Where the sweat and tears of each person
bid flavor tastefully and disliked, but
each God-gift swallow demands you taste
new life and love through family.
YOU ARE READING
Poem Sunday
PoetryYep. It's Sunday. Have a poem. I am foremost not a poet, but it was an early love. And it is a form of expression that deserves as much love as it can get.
