Sugar rolls off memory

while dusk peels heartache,

like cold lemon rind 

your grandmother would grate,

sour  offsets the much too sweet

maple of fate

in cold tendril spills that have

overgrown late.

Words cool down embers,

as vowels lift the till,

September doves tease me with

words from their swill

and forests of feathers

whose ends write too sharp,

 chorus and beckon with angel-born harps.

The seasons bend slowly with secrets in seams

of poorly sewn jumpers whose zippers hide reams

of words woven deep in hushed away, blue silk,

the memory of what’s never spoken still milks

and secretes the motive of whom it’s born for,

the captive is knowing regardless of lore

that’s ill begotten in silly retelling,

only the purest can bare

truth’s bell ring.

Written by Rose Loya Copyright 2008