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Honeysuckle
March 17, 2013
There is poetry in my bones but it will not come out.
I can feel the words bubbling and foaming,
Rich with sap and sugar.
There is music in my bones but it will not come out.
The notes are staccato, a deep crescendo
But they are tethered to the ground.
There is a painting in my bones but it will not come out.
Brushstrokes of balloons and spring sunset
Smeared against my walls.
There is life in my bones but it will not come out
Unless someone like you comes along and
Pulls me open to taste.
© Richard F., League City, TX
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