Dust motes drift

A kyrielle poem for the Daily Post prompt: Glass.

822px-'The_Mirror'_by_William_Merritt_Chase,_Cincinnati_Art_Museum

Dust motes drift through golden air,

My palm upturned I catch them where

The breeze through open window blows,

Where it comes from no one knows.

 

Palm upturned to touch your face,

Though you have fled this special place,

The mirror glass, a memory shows,

Where it comes from no one knows.

 

I still recall the happy hours,

Spent beneath these scented bowers,

The mists become a ghostly rose,

Where it comes from no one knows.

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Published by

Jane Dougherty

I used to do lots of things I didn't much enjoy. Now I am officially a writer. It's what I always wanted to be.

5 thoughts on “Dust motes drift”

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