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Late Winter
by Lois P. Jones

I like it when you’re quiet.
The way your shadow fills me
with solitude.

With the face of a red hibiscus
overturned into this stream.

The patience of a well worn
bench empty and expectant.

You don't need words
to coax a season.
To translate borealis, kisses

in the archway. The camellia
that tricks you
into thinking it's a rose.

To know me, listen
to nothing. Take my heart
and roll it in your palms.

Here under this lintel
of silence a river birch
shows only skin,

pale as a prayer
and twice as lonely.

Around it, everything
in early bloom.

Published by Goldfish Press – 2009 Pushcart Nomination  

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