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November Muse, sonnet #4

May 18, 2009

Morning mist kissed leaves of red gold

weigh heavily on age perfected branches

tightly entangled, brittle and lifeless

our ground opulently patterned by natures old

and a faint weeping echo of stories lay cold

I await, dressed in love and spoiled chances

breath dense with desire but fogged by distance

sense ripened by time, pick, do not withhold 

 

Now, hands aged gentle soft, take my own

leading away to safes pure intent

cold is now warm, our limbs entwined

we are but are, alone in natures womb

sharing delights response in kind

 

penn

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From → Poetry/Writing

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