The Weakness of Snowbells
A stream of consciousess poem.
She wasn't there in the hollow of the melting
when the snowbells came to whisper softening
revelations of a wanted dawn.
She was shaken. Colder tremblings of something
close to forever. She closed her eyes, made a prayer.
Something to remember Him by.
There's a staging in the space between nothing
and eternity. A kind of gentle grace that requires
no violent reckoning.
Parting paces of peace left pandered. If she had
questioned nothing it would have been as
evaportation on the wind.
Sweet on the tongue like honeysuckle, and no
less deniable. She was a weakness in silk and
Time could not turn
His face from Hers.
© E.B. Johnson 2024
About the Creator
E.B. Johnson
I like to write about the things that interest me.
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