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(Poem by Wendy Howe ) I am left in our tea room sipping brewed rose hips and piling brass coins on a tabletop. You are off to the islands prone to explore stone temples and breezy hillsides for inspiration. Sea shell in hand, you hear the ocean clearing her throat and becoming the voice of a soprano goddess on the coastline of Cyprus. Your narrow back has palms, blossoms -- even sails tattooed in shadow by the sun a map highlighting fragrance and leisure. Sunday morning, you return and we will be born again -- a new woman drawn, curving along sanguine lines of ink and a pastel scarf that loosely binds her Botticelli hair. To know more about this poem, about Wendy Howe All Images & Poems (En) |
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