Storm of Flowers

All day long on

a long day’s journey

south to Cartagena,

through lonely hills

and empty roads

and sheets of April rain,

I thought about your hands,

the ones you fear

look just like a man’s.

And wondered if you knew

that in my eyes your

hands are wings, your

hands are lips.

and sometimes flames

and sometimes roots

with ten white stalks that

burrow through the sleeping

earth in search of light.

All night long a

black wind slammed

against the house in

which I slept and threads

of rain the color of slate

hissed against the window

near my bed.

In the morning

in clear blue light

I rose from dreams

of thorns and snow,

to see pink jasmine bloom

outside the window,

to hear the songs of birds

in the throats of hyacinths,

and feel the petals tumble

from my own mouth

like prayers,

into your hands.

© 2012 J.M. Keating

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