Basket of figs is enough to wish upon;
saccharine, swirling dark empty spaces,
do they really exist for us to lose ourselves in?
For the avoidance of doubt
the chords of guitar have marked these fingers,
they are washed all over faded denim
snug, ripped at the knees and hot.
I’d like to think the one you conceal from everyone is visible
to me and my breath only;
stirred, the winter wind continues to blow
now that the leaves from the sugar gum trees have fallen,
they are so proud as though carob skin was their glory
they are instruments meant to cajole the swooping birds;
won’t you listen,
the bluegrass is something of a wonder that beckons
even from a distance.
Photo credits: Pinterest
Grace is our hostess today at dVerse with another prompt on
synaesthesia, this time on the cross over between music and
color. Come join us! 💝
Posted for MTB: Synesthesia @ dVerse Poets Pub