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(Poem by Wendy Howe ) Each morning she braids her long hair and lays its against her back , a vine yielding light as it unfolds and flowers salt-white. Each morning she lifts her son and locks him in arms that have felt strains of a small boat docking in the piano's heart whenever her husband played Debussy. He understood how the composer drafted music, a boat drifting and lodging the dream of its listener -- his wife. She gathered roses and notes rippling through her hair as dawn prompted the garden to hone its poignant scent and the bridegroom to practice his musical skill. Quietly, she imagined a mother's hand tilting the bassinet, sliding it toward the window and the whimsical nod of trees that amused her son each day when hours spelled out the fair silence of morning. To know more about Wendy Howe All Images & Poems (En) |
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