Sunday Afternoon

Blue orchids, wilted
In the fragrance of a
Summer’s day;
I stand, reveling in the lust
Of glimmering sunshine,
Remembering my eyes
Crinkling in yours.
You were my Sunday afternoon,
Snuggled amid tousled linen –
Cinder and silt in cups
With chamomile prints.
Look how my curls
Bustle like unmanned waves
To Beethoven’s symphony on
The record player –
Sloven, passive
How chaotic it feels,
Inside out.
I am too languid to be
Arranging my cynicism
In a mundane heap.
I would rather be counting the
Drooping petals of my blue orchids
Or the dwindling repartee
Mingled in dreamless sleep.

29 March 2015


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