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Board Administrator Username: mjm Post Number: 3552 Registered: 11-1998 |
Honorable Mention The Reading Room Vienna (Carole Barley) Come September, this place is strewn with wayward tendrils of passionflower. Under pinkgold clouds, between the azure of early evening sky and earth, lie pages from Vavra, running though this grass that curls around bare feet. Petals untidy the lawn, water drips from a tall Egyptian pot elegant with papyrus. A blackbird sings into the silence. Your words are dressage; intricate, arched-crest fire. Silk, like the fine sheen of mesemryanthemum, as easily understood as a daisychain in a child's pink hands. The sounds I decipher from scrawl are nutmeg, mimosa, igneous rock. I close my eyes and believe that my arms have grown flight feathers. When the sun slides low and shadow mutes colour the third stanza becomes a call to the stars. The garden cools; mystery and trysts come into play. There is a bright slice of moon in the sky, if my owl chooses to come, I will listen to his nocturne as I prepare for sleep; fold paper back into neat squares, trace fingers again and again over magic ink. |
