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Whisperings The wind shows me her mirrors, reflecting faces she had touched thousands of years ago. I strain to hear the strains of ancient music. The laughter of children tenderly held in the folds of her whisperings. Her fingers rush through my hair as if somehow claiming me for her own. In a eternal game of tag. She kisses my eyes and lightly brushes by my lips. Pressing there a history of where she has been. She is old Oldest playful lover Crop circles are only the hickeys she leaves behind on the earth’s wondrous flesh. In the beginning there was only wind When she speaks through the trees I discover the voice of time. I hear to my bones the sounds of forever. |
This Poem was Critiqued By: DeniMari Z. On Date: 2014-07-07 08:01:13
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
Hi Joe - a sentimental poem with engaging imagery - In poetic verse I would eliminate the 6th verse because for me the use of "Crop circles" takes away from this piece - as well as the use of the word "strain" twice in one verse -
Love the use of reflections of mirrors in the wind - and the happiness intended,
Deni