She’s more than a morning coffee
drinker, more than her function as
office confidante, more yet than
the colour of her eyes or skin.
.
Birth stones and birth order and birth
marks are but petals to her rose,
characteristics folded deep,
convoluted lines and colours
which add or detract from beauty.
.
Shoe size and predisposition
to diabetes, scars hammered
in where wobbly knees met gravel,
violin lessons on rainy
afternoons, the desire to dance –
ruffled layers all, a goldfinch
singing from hidden willow perch.
.
I see her there, can count petals,
classify by botanical
name – yet, in calculating sums,
have I arrived at her spirit?
.
Do I know where she goes at night
when skeletal remains escape
closeted fears, or of whom she
dreams when her conversation flags,
eyes traversing galaxies hung
somewhere behind my left shoulder?
.
Fingers cannot touch the places
she’s been, nor trace the subtle curves
where geological process
has altered her surface features.
.
I see her there, can count petals,
compare tints to a hardware store
strip, watch as they shift before
sun and shadow – and when strangers
ask if I know her, I say no.
Meanwhile, Melody Muses... 
Love it.
Thanks Rob!
Oh wise one…. Drowning in ur deep deep words…. Glug glug…
Is there hope for me???
😉 I doubt it… hehe
The poem flows so beautifully. How do you do it?! i know!— It’s a gift. From the Giver of gifts! Lovely photo, too, btw!
Thanks so much! ‘yes, it Is a gift. But I also work hard at reading poetry and trying to learn more about how to construct poems in order to be more effective. I am so gratified to know that the work is paying off! 🙂
there’s a warm healing in the heart of your writing correlations that start a reflective upward steamy processing !
Wow. I am so inspired to write more! 🙂 Thanks, friend.