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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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