Swaying
in the lazy tall grass,
a
long haired maiden
with
song
wild
as the wind, plucking
the
seeded dandelions
to
blow them for ransom
toward
the rogue waves,
to
the rambling tides.
An
instrument in your hands,
I
become the woodwind
like
an oboe of Gabriel.
The
pinnacle of afternoon
wafted
sunlight through
the
slated panes,
the
icons I have observed
since
my first renaissance
are
kept carefully
in
the most treasured
parts
of a convent
where
love is refined
and
truth distilled
to
pure
and
vivid
water.
My
heart broke open
and
from its hearth stone
a
sister took the bread of God,
broken
with her careful hands
into
pieces.
My
past was not unformed
in
your eyes...
I
decided to follow you to a new land,
and
never leave you.
Emily Isaacson
Poetry reading and book signing coming up this June: Click here
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