I opened an old folder of poetry and found this one written years ago. Though I'm shy to share my own poems (never studied the craft), I offer it on the Fire Escape this chilly morning.
New Age
by Mitali Perkins
You clutch the faded scraps of cloth.
One they were silky squares of color, strongly sewn.
No use. Too few left. Loosen your fingers.
Watch the wind whisk them away.
You hear a whisper. Sense a shadow.
Smell the fragrance of a stranger’s breath.
A woven cloak falls across your shoulders.
Warmed, you wait for a voice to name a price.
But the air grows still, the leaves, the words in your mind.
The waves are like slate.
You search the quiet waters for the glimmer of a woman.
Do you see her? Clothed in linen, silver-gray, wrought by ancient hands?
Something makes you turn.
Beyond the grass, you see a table set for two.
Candles flicker. A basket lined with linen cradles fresh-baked bread.
Break it; the steam warms your hands.
Chalices brim with ruby wine. Sip the aged sweetness.
Drink your fill, beloved.
Fill your glass until it spills and stains the cloth.
There’s more on the way, and oil for your tired temples.
Poetry Friday is hosted this week at Live. Love. Explore.
Photo courtesy of Jim Frazier via Creative Commons.
New Age
by Mitali Perkins
You clutch the faded scraps of cloth.
One they were silky squares of color, strongly sewn.
No use. Too few left. Loosen your fingers.
Watch the wind whisk them away.
You hear a whisper. Sense a shadow.
Smell the fragrance of a stranger’s breath.
A woven cloak falls across your shoulders.
Warmed, you wait for a voice to name a price.
But the air grows still, the leaves, the words in your mind.
The waves are like slate.
You search the quiet waters for the glimmer of a woman.
Do you see her? Clothed in linen, silver-gray, wrought by ancient hands?
Something makes you turn.
Beyond the grass, you see a table set for two.
Candles flicker. A basket lined with linen cradles fresh-baked bread.
Break it; the steam warms your hands.
Chalices brim with ruby wine. Sip the aged sweetness.
Drink your fill, beloved.
Fill your glass until it spills and stains the cloth.
There’s more on the way, and oil for your tired temples.
Poetry Friday is hosted this week at Live. Love. Explore.
Photo courtesy of Jim Frazier via Creative Commons.