13 September, 2013

Theresa's Angel


Not just the crystal timbre
Drawn out by the violin bow;
But, the tang of spring moss
On the Laurentian moor /
The cinnamon accent singing
In the bite of Sunday’s apple cake /
The galloping laughter ricocheting
Around during the car ride
Home from the airport /
The joyous crazy cacophony
Of young children’s voices
Bundling up before going
Out to play in the snow/

I am not the slow and stately
Adagio. Rather, I am the bright
Quick piercing bliss of Allegro.

That is me.

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