2/13/13

Your Lips...
By Richard Morris


Cool – like a drink of rain from a welled rose petal. It’s when you smile, in that sort of crooked fashion, that a golden piece of the sun falls into my hand. It’s into your eyes I look when I want to see the other half of a soul separated til now, but it’s when I want to hear its music that I look to your lips. In the evening’s silent prayer they move to show God the effort you’re making. Then in the dawn, they whistle a birdsong carried out an open window, and toward the greening pine, which steals it as the morning’s first kiss.


- - -