My husband’s pride is
African violets, purple
faces genuflect.
Majesty
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My husband’s pride is
African violets, purple
faces genuflect.
Wearing the mantle
of autumn. Cold starry nights
days of leaf-strewn gold.
An apple, as red
as it is crisp, awaits on
the blue floral plate.
This is the dance in
side my head. No two left feet.
Only thoughts, spinning.
The new furnace kicks
on, and I rise to the warmth
like yeast bread baking.
The review called her
‘fetching’ – wrapped in bandages,
convulsing, bleeding.
Back east, the skies are
clearing, blue unending. Cool
dampness. Leaves changing.
Kindred spirits drift
within the net and sometimes
meet by accident.
Seductive silence
wraps me past midnight. I crave
the absence of sound.
Cup of pleasure wafts
aromatic steam warming my
lips pursed for a sip.