ɪɪɪ | sᴀʟʟᴇs ᴅᴇ ɪᴠʏ
By February the tree's flowers bloom
Bright magenta replaces its viridian leaves
The early morning's cool breeze brushes her face
Her eyes follow the flower's landing towards the earth
By noon, she laughs with her friends as they talk
Under the old tree, they trade stories, ideas, and insights
Perhaps they'd try to sing different songs
The wind blows, and follows their identical medallions—a reminder of who they are
She recalls—yes the tasks instructed were difficult
Yes, their mentors made no sense at most
But she prays for those days to return
As she remembers the lilies that have grown in her heart
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sᴀʟʟᴇs ᴅᴇ ɪᴠʏ (ʜᴀʟʟs ᴏғ ɪᴠʏ) ɪs ᴀ sᴜʙ-ᴄᴏᴍᴘɪʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏғ ᴘᴏᴇᴍs ᴀᴅʀᴇssᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴀᴜᴛʜᴏʀ's ᴀʟᴍᴀ-ᴍᴀᴛᴇʀ/s.
YOU ARE READING
Bottled
Poetry"I've kept all beautiful things inside this bottle, those of which are my feelings-each blissful and crushing one." A series of words to express the inexpressible.
