Full-mouthed, furled, yellow:

This entry is part 6 of 29 in the series Morning Porch Poems: Winter 2012-13

the roses open despite the cold.

One touch of the child’s hand
and their garments float away—

no compass but the wind, nothing
to provision; no destination

that we don’t already know.

 

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

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