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We met
           under a shower
of bird-notes.
           Fifty years passed,
love's moment
           in a world in
servitude to time.
           She was young;
I kissed with my eyes
           closed and opened
them on her wrinkles.
           `Come,' said death,
choosing her as his
            partner for
the last dance, And she,
            who in life
had done everything
            with a bird's grace,
opened her bill now
            for the shedding
of one sigh no
            heavier than a feather.


Submitted by Philippa Kaye

Added: 2 Mar 2003 | Last Read: 23 Nov 2008 10:28 AM | Viewed: 5456 times

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