Lizzie
January 29th 2008 09:08
The green room is still,
And there is a distant sound of trees brushing air.
You slide sound into the air with your humming.
We could be from a Jane Austen afternoon:
Your needle moving steadily
Through white lace-
Curled knees with
Feet softly shifting
Now and then.
Pale skin glowing
Fingers trembling with detail
Pink bolts of cotton folded around your hips.
We are in the still green room,
Fabric pulling together,
Words forming a small pile on the carpet,
Pressing cohesion into our world.
And there is a distant sound of trees brushing air.
You slide sound into the air with your humming.
We could be from a Jane Austen afternoon:
Your needle moving steadily
Through white lace-
Curled knees with
Feet softly shifting
Now and then.
Pale skin glowing
Fingers trembling with detail
Pink bolts of cotton folded around your hips.
We are in the still green room,
Fabric pulling together,
Words forming a small pile on the carpet,
Pressing cohesion into our world.
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