The weight of our love
from the past
is a definite truth
as I wonder the future
staying busy, yet often tired.
A chilled autumn wind revolves
over our Mother
and the great Mother Earth
there is no warmth in the sky,
no time...
Truly,I have been intriqued
by some of Anne Sextons work
(her approach to life),
always respect Robert Frost
like Robert Browning.
Lately entangled
by a lonely serenade
from a lost Irish Writer
(WB Yeats)
Irish words over black cherry paintings
of the sun, a garden somewhere,
a jasmine tinted fan...