Urged to stop—
or still, enough to smell the pink-tipped day
as the fast, frantic fiddle plays,
and purple breath-clouds cross the sky,
to blossom in the in-between with shadowed light,
and in this between, or in the after, you ask
why? The hot-headed goddess sits above
languidly shining bright-beamed, life seeming to
swim and sail through death-churned water—
elaborate on if, she says.
And you gaze at blue, recall the taste of honeyed-spring,
and puppy gambols, the scent of summer rain,
the sound of it falling, you falling
deep within, slowing to hear the whispers
of wind and stars, the voices of loved ones,
remembering your dreams.
My poem from the Oracle. I thought I’d try first for a cadralor or attempt another fragment poem, but my mind (or she) insists on making connections.