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(Poem by Wendy Howe ) One evening you anointed me poet. Arthur Rimbaud She sits at the back of the Frenchman’s soul centered in a small courtyard. The stone fountain trickles ivy instead of water. Leaves sag on the vine pinching dust while a tree shadows her gown like an ostrich plume. Softly, it shakes reminding the muse that words have left her nimble hands and silence begs to dream in ripe color; wheat fields and poppies grapes dark and pale rivers blue from the ink of a soluble sky. To know more about Wendy Howe All Images & Poems (En) |
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