Gilded

This entry is part 23 of 27 in the series Morning Porch Poems: Autumn 2014

She rubbed ointment across the darkening patch on her ankle, feeling the itch beneath the burn.

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Some miniatures take months, sometimes years, to complete. One must ponder the weight and shape of what is missing, before the outline can be imagined.

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She wrote of receiving in the mail pots of aloe, pots of African violets— propagated by friends from original plants once tended by her son before he passed away.

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It is astonishing, how anger and hurt behave— leave in them too long the impress of your fingers and they will adorn every space in the room.

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Honey on the tongue, bitterness in the heart. Soon the grammar of venomous bees in each ear.

 

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

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