in the land of desert and drum it’s possible
for a child to awake in the rhythm
of uninvited hips: a thunderstorm,
rumbling through the intestines
of childhood, a thorn tree
caught in the throat;
are the hands that protest
only the fluttering of dark wings
in the night, small fingers,
searching,
thirsty for the fragrance of dream,
the sacred syllables of song
and smile,
soft,
wide like the wingspan of a heart
that gathers the mouth’s shadows
and sobs as old papers
for the wind,
and puts the feet back
on the path of
sunflowers
Silver trophy winner
Adding your comment:
Exellent metaphor and imagery
See look what your poems do to me. lol
my hope of winnings crashing down- lol
Ohhh...wow. This is my favorite poem of yours now. You know that's sayin' a lot, my Friend, since I adore everything you pen. Magnificent. Pure. Honest & REAL. I literally gasped, then got tears in my eyes from the elegant sorrow, the eloquent joy that only you can sing so sweetly. My God, Woman. Your heart is pulsating & glistening all over this page. 
