balladeer of moons
174,341 poems read
Your Whispers Are Souvenirs To Me
(a vision)
Your whispers are souvenirs to me,
like Pachelbel in the park
and your bare-footed laughter
lustrous in the jeweled raindrops.
Separating fine blond hairs
from your necklace clasp
with unlawful fingertips
is the end of heartbreak for me.
All of the showy blue columbines
in Pocahontas Park could perform
for the blushing red poppies.
This cannot rival your sun-yellow neck curls
and long, dancing body.
Not all the rain and tears
in glass worlds, nor all the women
whose dishonest hearts I have demised
could compose the dreamed days
of Kate by the wishing-well.
Your whispers stay in my veins
like the greenest absinthe.
We may never know
when the slow dance
is going to play again.
-- The Great American Poet
Your whispers are souvenirs to me,
like Pachelbel in the park
and your bare-footed laughter
lustrous in the jeweled raindrops.
Separating fine blond hairs
from your necklace clasp
with unlawful fingertips
is the end of heartbreak for me.
All of the showy blue columbines
in Pocahontas Park could perform
for the blushing red poppies.
This cannot rival your sun-yellow neck curls
and long, dancing body.
Not all the rain and tears
in glass worlds, nor all the women
whose dishonest hearts I have demised
could compose the dreamed days
of Kate by the wishing-well.
Your whispers stay in my veins
like the greenest absinthe.
We may never know
when the slow dance
is going to play again.
-- The Great American Poet