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gracie Apr 16
Little white sheep on a faded blue pillowcase
          your hair strewn across like a
sleepy blonde storm.

I’ve got the strangest feeling...

Last night I had a dream—perhaps a memory
          of you bathed in golden light,
                    pulling up fistfuls of grass
          and piling it on my bare knee.

          A voice low and purling
with the stream at our feet.
                    Silk on skin.
                              Lips on peaches.
                                        Pinky promises
                              on Sunday afternoons.

We wear socks to glide over the kitchen tiles
          humming along to an ancient song on the radio.
another old poem reworked
gracie Apr 2
I wish my mother would let her hair go gray,
but she says it makes no difference black
or silver-streaked. It won’t shine like a young lady’s,
an ivy-league beauty on her way to biochemistry
and it won’t bounce when she laughs at some charming
church boy’s jokes or cascade down her shoulders
when she shakes it from its pins. It’s too sparse now, I think.
Thinned by two children, dulled by one husband.
Only scattered locks to cry behind, wispy
memories from darker, warmer days that fade
with the dye like overexposed polaroids
stashed in the back of a dresser.
gracie Apr 2
Dreams of you descend—flurries
dancing through frosty air softly
as kisses on foreheads, gently
as fingertips trace the hollows
of collarbones; sleepy golden hair
peppered with stars as you exhale
warm wisps of breath into
the atmosphere. Tell me, what did you say?
Words caught in the curl of your lip
when I left you smiling to the silver
sky; communion between heaven
and poet. Even now, your laugh
rings like bells, angelic vision I reach
out to touch but you remain
ever evasive.
old poem reworked
gracie Nov 2020
they say “a rose is a rose”
but I’m more of a dandelion
clumsy and soft, always growing
in gardens I’m not meant to be
and betting on the wishes of silly
tufted daydreams.
gracie Jun 2020
You never knew the garden
I grew from within
or the ripe honeysuckles
intertwined with my ribs
you never pressed your mouth
to my pink primrose lips
or felt your hands laced
between my fern fingertips
you never saw the buttercups
brim behind my eyes
or the soft blue forget-me-nots
speckling my thighs
you never heard my voice
not a laugh, not a word
so don’t tell me I’m missing
what you found in her.
gracie May 2019
i don’t want to fall in love
i want to step into it, slowly
like a shower on a monday
morning. warm, easy-on-the
the bones. softness, two hands
to hold and a mouth to tell me
stories. someone to whisper
“what-ifs” across the wire and
fill the kitchen with kisses
and strawberry cake
i don’t want to fall in love,
i want to make it.
gracie Apr 2019
for the first time
the future is a risk, uncertain
and ominous
a cliff above dark waters where
i'm told to dive headfirst,
eyes-closed, into icy depths
praying i'll know how to swim
but for the first time
the future is a mystery, new
and limitless
a story not yet written by the hands
of fate and strangers passing by,
coffee shop patrons and the stray
cat crossing 5th
perhaps this is the first time
when the future is truly mine
to find.
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