Jun 2017
She holds the cone
ever gently,
cradling the gift.
Exquisite thing,
delicate hands.
With wonderment
she considers
its strange beauty.
Maybe lethal,
but not to touch.
If this be thing
most deadly she
encounters she
will have been blest
with good fortune.
As what she holds
will transition
through life cycle,
she, too, will grow
and, with time, old.
Her dark tresses
will gray and thin.
Her skin, now smooth,
will furrow and
the now flawless
hands will deform.
Time has its way
with all things
by wintertime.
But it is spring.
Let us rejoice
in this moment
when youth prevails
and life is good.
*
And what of me
(I, full of years)?
My heart melts.
ever gently,
cradling the gift.
Exquisite thing,
delicate hands.
With wonderment
she considers
its strange beauty.
Maybe lethal,
but not to touch.
If this be thing
most deadly she
encounters she
will have been blest
with good fortune.
As what she holds
will transition
through life cycle,
she, too, will grow
and, with time, old.
Her dark tresses
will gray and thin.
Her skin, now smooth,
will furrow and
the now flawless
hands will deform.
Time has its way
with all things
by wintertime.
But it is spring.
Let us rejoice
in this moment
when youth prevails
and life is good.
*
And what of me
(I, full of years)?
My heart melts.
Inspired by a photo that I cannot post. It is a closeup of a little Asian girl who cradles a brown cone-shaped toadstool in her perfect little hands. She gazes at it intently through almond eyes, a smile (a bit more than a Gioconda smile, but only a
little) on her pretty face. Her black hair is more than shoulder-length, and partly hides the warm blue parka she wears. She is at the edge of some woods in Canada. It is springtime; the chill of winter is not yet past.
little) on her pretty face. Her black hair is more than shoulder-length, and partly hides the warm blue parka she wears. She is at the edge of some woods in Canada. It is springtime; the chill of winter is not yet past.
