One is quiet, dark like corner
where heart sits thinking, the other
examining a small pink shell
flooded with morning's light...
beetle black as schist, sweet
swan bathed in silver, milky-soft.
Inside, purpose sharpens like
a sword, outside every bird rejects
ambition to lean towards warmth.
As such, the rose holds little meaning
without its well-placed thorn.
1 comment:
I don't know Jane H but I love Mary O and see in your work some of the qualities I admire in hers.
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