Hushed beauty is captured
for a moment,
drifting in soft, ruby flutter
and a sigh of woe is heard
from a maternal host,
“oh, flesh of my flesh,”
until somber tears rest
but for an instant like
languid, slipping dew
over moistened, translucent
constructs of delicate shades,
vibrant and rich
like the apt and ample palette
of God Himself.










27 old applause
