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Poetry

From my lips to your ears

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To tell you, would be a lie—

that I’m okay.  Holding it together

in dovetail, like love and hate.

Only I can’t remember the last time

someone came by with an unconcealed smile.

These days it’s WhatsApp and Zoom,

Not one to follow crowds, invasions

scare me out of my skin, so for now

my privacy is being preserved by a flimsy mask.

I have found something that works; window watching.

How the night swallows the moon, in one gulp, gone.

The sunrise is my ray of sunshine, it overthrows

the still blue sky: at the close of day

I can happily testify they have kissed and

made up—radiating what I feel inside, peace.

The slabs of thick bread are never tossed

aside as scrap, the morning larks leave

no crumbs behind: they tweet and tell me

they want pumpkin seeds for morrow’s feed.

After some frisking they too fly off. 

My garden is sympathetic, sprouting

weeds in the crevices of the drive, calling me

to bend my back, wrench and pull away,

Nature is calling; it has been for some time:

guilty of turning stones, but not listening.

My friend, Mr Jennings, is 93, world wars apart and

I read him poetry; lockdown can’t be easy for him

an atom of freedom taken away, what then, is

left?  The smell of summer of 1976, he tells me.

I am waiting like an object to be found

— a witness to hope. 

Still, the day is kind, with five allotted segments

like this mandarin from Japan I eat: I’m in

love with the textured sweetness, it lingers

on my lips.   

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