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Colder Kisses

Missing image
Air smells morning
in still-life love
of gray, cold flowers.

Ours is skin,
covered limb,
baring ice,

now twice to fall
in footprint, fading.


Is it age,
this silent, feathered comedy,
miming time, descending shadow?


Here,
where passion sinks in weary root,
I rest my voice,

tongue,
un-aroused by colder kisses.














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Comments


  • Sandra R Reynolds gold member
    November 2, 2008
    Edit | Reply
    Very different but I like it. Great imagery


  • tara wilson gold member
    November 2, 2008

    Edit | Reply


    please, never rest your voice and your fingers=)...until you have to...