The Swiftness

Among the untrimmed beds

of Azaleas, she kneels,

and presents her palms, flat

to the air as an offering

of friendship

​

Waiting for butter flies to greet her,

to land in the peaks and valleys

of her finger prints

​

Face lined like wrinkled silk

dry-hanging from the veranda

​

They pity her request, touching down

weight less in the slim, skeletal curvature

of her fingers

​

Careless, they discuss their dominance

over beauty and such forms

as she begins curling

her fingers around

their stained-glass wings

​

Now sealing her hands

over her deflated lips,

she swallows

them whole, careful

not to shatter

their fragile form

​

I Remember Listening

Here I stand

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The formatting was waaaayyyy off so I compromised and did it this way