You are a woman who has come to her season years like blackbirds journey south you are a Pompeii still burning and the silent rain that cools You are as ancient as secret rumors feathered moth into the fire knowing hands soothed babies and lovers then you became the flame itself. Shed your lost moments and sorrows like a bride tossing wilted blooms crack the catacombs of secrets now pleading to be told For you are depth, as fine as death an aurora of filtered sun, for you are marble, not porcelain, you are charred bone and soul. Does the wind bring promise of time or hush backward, time to go, time to go? Scars of thorns are silvery reminders that your love is not blind but wise you are a woman who has come to her season with eyes that see with the heart. © Kathleen Cecilia Potokar 9/16/2014 Be the Flame, Not the Moth oil on canvas, 2014 ©dennis potokar 32 x 54 in 81 x 137 cm
Posted on: Wed, 17 Sep 2014 19:17:47 +0000
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