panes belayed the light, and images of the saints
tiptoed in the quiet."
the flower shoppe,
peeling red roses—
of love from barrels in corners—
for respite in desperate voices,
on note cards in spidery scrawl
quiet to steal heart after heart;
subtle perfume, dense and aromatic,
you were, the colorful bouquet,
dark comes at the end of each evening,
out the transgression of former hours,
through our sin are the stars.
compared me once to a night without stars.
all her journeys into the soul, a woman
her power as nature recreates itself each day
all that is within her,
imparts strength to those she loves
those she must forgive,
them notes with flowers.