Dandelion Dust
Sometimes, it is just the dust of a dandelion
blowing in the breeze, the haze in a sunset
and everything spirals inside, like the wings
of a desiccated insect that got entangled
and lost in the last summer clear out
the fine veins, like a painting on an easel
and the strokes unsure, you roll it up, discard it
and an attic is a curious place where you
wrap up your memories, just for mice to gnaw.
It is the tree, cut down on a warm June evening
and the light that suddenly appears, except
all that it does is show you the lines and the creases
the remnants of spores of lost loves and relationships,
it is the mirror under the eaves, with muslin draped
you clear it away and a spider darts over your hand
and in fright you shake it away, scared of a bite
or that dust might spell out your name on
some old Ouija board, where the glass was always
pushed and the men you met always had other initials.
I think of wings of exotic butterflies, placed in rings
brooches and pictures, their luminous colours.
The night bird sings as she always does
but the timid ones wait for the dawn,
this is a sorry world, in a sordid existence,
I am the dust from the freshly strewn hay
the finger of a resistance, fighting the floods
I am the daisy, fragile and strong,
a princess for a day, while mother passed away.
I am the sap and the spore, the head turning owl
and sometimes just the memory of a nature's clock,
ticking and tocking, waiting for what?
Poetry by Elle
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Written on 2015-06-24 at 19:52
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