13

This wind sounds
A benediction,
And I know
The ending
It foretells.

But before turning
A back
On indulgence —
Let the autumn
Breathe me in.

Send judgement
To stand in the corner —
And the muse
Makes it look
So easy,

But she’s your lover,
Not mine.
And after all,
There are so many paths
Down to the floor.

And despite any daydreams
I might relish,
We roll around
Like children,
In innocent play.

No conception of sin
Will hold —
Unless to think
Or to feel
Is sinful.

And you can pull me
Down to my knees.
Anoint my brow
With oils scented
Of spice in the wild wood,

And bless me
Any way you know how.
There are
A million ways
To sing the mother prayer.

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About Emily

I may or may not have: A. Dirt B. Ink C. Paint D. Wool under my fingernails.

One response to “13”

  1. Audrey Howitt says :

    Love this Emily, especially the last stanza–

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