Friday, May 31, 2013

Digging dirt

My hand
Still stained
From digging dirt
Moves inch by inch
Across the crisp
White surface
Of the sheet

My labored breath,
Rasping still
From my stumbled rush
Up the stairs,
I am like a bee
Drawn to an open flower
I feared might close
Before I could come

Softness leads to softness
My fingers have
 no right to feel
My stain glistening
on every space
I touch,
My fingers touching
I can’t believe exist,
I leave my flaws
In this flower
A silver dew
Dripping off
Each still
Opened petal

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