Hopes
Her dreams are fast heldapples in an apron
and the hand around her hip
that levers her to ground.
Her hopes are strained
through muslin cloths,
the pureé of the autumn fuit,
the sweetness on her lips.
Her heart is on the right side,
the one that steers,
minds the mires and the pitfalls
and doesn't lie while she sleeps.
Her serenity is not a sheen
or a glean in the mountain of false gold,
Its in the smell of turned earth
and the spring of all eternal rebirth.
She and all who she is,
the love, the aspirations,
failings and successes
She is all who she is
and her steps, already worn.
Poetry by Elle
Read 770 times
Written on 2010-10-17 at 17:00
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