You lie in ceaseless rosemary —
Sleeps where the woods are pink
You — as lady brought us feathers
I hear the Fly buzz as I think.
You alone — now inked to paper
but never let us see the seen,
Your chamber reeks — closed perfumed
A summer torn from what’s been.
Laura hosts dVerse poetics and she wants us to write to or about a poet, remembering to leave the name in the title trying to mimic the style of the poet.
May 18, 2022