A fire sunset facing her, thunder didn’t
show, how much she even wished for this
sky to hurt, to rive in two, boiling the river
This house helps her to collect her thoughts,
when cold the enemy, next scene,
Fred and Ginger in black white, an army of
finches wings, turns – step up as sallow fawn
against the cotton candy clouds, shred the sun,
head for nests, for the walls, water.
The irresponsible her hits the little eggs out of
the paper flowers, pink yellow green, with
dusty rabbit routes underneath, facing her
for today. Tomorrow it is the hibiscus who’ll end
up in the kitchen. Frying doesn’t relax her,
cruciferous vegetables to avoid. He told her:
I like onions with my eggs, cinnamon with my coffee.
she still likes strangers too, how she loved him.
In a heart
Kate Copeland started absorbing libraries ever since a little lass. Her fondness for words led her to teaching and translating some sweet languages; her love for art, water and writing has led her happily to poetry (and to publications, hurrah!). Kate was born in Rotterdam some 51 ages ago and is a housesitter in Spain, the UK and USA.
Photo by Milada Vigerova on Unsplash