By tomorrow, our old world
will breathe memoirs
venting its passion
in the fountain pen splattering
of blue mist.
Tonight, it drifts away
on the scent
of a burnt-out candle,
after sweet words were spoken,
and kisses given
like last rites to a dream.
Now, the wax slowly hardens
relinquishing its warm flesh
to memory posed smooth
as �Odalisque.�
The room�s long shadows droop;
and we know �
�Love� will soon pass,
deliquesce near dawn
into a flight of birds
washing the past off their wings
pulling light across the river.
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Copyright �2001 by Wendy Howe. All rights reserved.
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