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Guest Poet Nancy Bowe


One sun-drenched day
she determines
not to pass him by,
and quivering,
feels his breath warm "Yes,"
until dusk lures yellows
and reds beneath
horizon's line,
and evening chill numbs his fingers.

Visited still by calendars
of pressed rose memory,
she pens unrhymed words
for his turned eyes,
still feeling the soft flutters
of the butterfly's wings
in midnight's cold.

September, 2001

Nancy Bowe's questions:

1. Do you hear the loss of a love relationship in this poem?

2. Are there any suggestions you would make to fine-tune lines that for you personally could be stronger?

3. Thanks for your thoughts.

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