This window
to your lavendar soul
is not
made of glass.
Your lashes,
though like curtains,
brush away
immaculate tears.

I wept for you.

Tea cup

Watching adolescent hands become womanly ones;
gentle angel-kissed and time-blessed extensions of my grandmother
coax me from the passage of my former self.
Each time I lift a tea cup
there is a a story that is passed between the two of us.
Now I see in the compact those round blue eyes,
fashioned like those
from a dime store cupie doll,
unexplicablly wiser than yesterday’s
or so I recall.
But in this soul is a wickedly young banchee child
is screaming with joy.
Ponytails damp with summer’s sweet sweatpuddle -
wet feet tapping out a limerick on the sidewalk.
She is sucking honeysuckle from the side of the house
and riding pastel chalk drawn ponies in her mind.