Blue
One’s heart is broken.
One’s heart is a well that neighbors call down,
searching for a lost child,
the mother held back
in the house.
It is a white frame house,
where someone paces kitchen
to living room,
a swell below the door sill
where the floors meet.
The heart looks out to the horizon, worrying
as night falls,
worrying
as the lawn that turns to field that turns to sky
turns to cobalt,
though the heart loves
that deep blue;
though the heart, when it can breathe,
loves blue.
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Here’s very much of a draft poem for Herotomost’s prompt on with real toads in honor of Leo, to write a poem that comes in like a lion, leaves like a lamb. I’m sorry I’ve been a bit behind returning comments. This has been a very job-intense summer for me.
P.S. – photo is mine–all rights reserved, as always.
Pps have edited since first posting.
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