Age Five, April, Maybe


Cumulus Nimbus




Lying in grass cradle
blanketed warm air
wrapped – rapt – eyes captured
cloud armies in immortal combat
with themselves
sucked into their self-inflicted wounds
no retreat from slip - jetstream
frigid regions of an infertile mind.


Curling smile crisply carves
fine furrows
dainty dimpled flesh
developing sense of humorous perceptions.

I turned to tell a friend
who wasn't there yet.

I rose and left
a convolution in crushed cradle
of wet grass
in my child's mind.




Poetry by NotaDeadPoet
Read 951 times
Written on 2007-01-05 at 05:14

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