The heads of roses begin to droop.
The bee who has been hauling his gold
all day finds a hexagon in which to rest.
In the sky, traces of clouds,
the last few darting birds,
watercolors on the horizon.
The white cat sits facing a wall.
The horse in the field is asleep on its feet.
I light a candle on the wood table.
I take another sip of wine.
I pick up an onion and a knife.
And the past and the future?
Nothing but an only child with two different masks.
( Billy Collins)
Photographer
Remember me?
You asked if I minded
You hugged and smiled
At my command.
Do you even know
what I look like?
Do you care?
Was the picture any good?
(WRM)
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2 comments:
When I read the first one I was expecting it to be one of yours by the end of the first verse with the geometric reference.
I like that.
I am not sure I really get the context for yours
If I get the picture; you were asked to take a photo for some people, using their camera, so they could all be in the picture.
The Photograph.
The dark brown of the sepia tint
Faded on the aged print
Caught a moment in time.
Snap.
The faces,pale with colour drained,
Glare,straight-faced;expressions strained,
Imprisoned in their prime.
j
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