Scent of a Single Iris

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The scent of a single iris

renders me a drunken bee.

Indigo edges

scallop each white dream.

Caterpillar tongues

languid lie

on three spread petals.

Between them,

smaller petals cup and touch,

and lift a purple wonder.

On either side of the blossoming queen,

two yet bound in bud

waft promise.

I cannot bow enough!

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Autumn Congruence

Autumn Congruence podcast

 

Even in geometry I liked it,

the fitting of figures

such a sleek thing, I wanted

to stroke the lines

of the shapes on the page.

At sixty-six, I fit myself.

 

From a tribal line, the figures

slide to coincide.

Ancestors dance

down through my skin

in a pageant of One, a divine parade

that makes me who I am.

 

My layers and lives

construct dimensions,

with nothing sticking out

to trip me up, so I can skip

and laugh across my autumn.

Congruence grants me grace.

(c) Susa Silvermarie 2013

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