Tuesday, January 20, 2015

EDITH WILFLEUR

Wildflower growing in Memory.
Were they the songs of my Father’s own?
Placed in the veins of my mother’s body
Discovered in grandmother’s poem tomes.

Smaller than anything I ever knew.
The Eyes of the Pansies so detailed.
Pupils of tears spilled in Heaven’s dews of Heaven.
I like that it goes past the Measure See.

I never fell apart though I was broken.
I merely switched feet and toncinued, ounce.
Quantity of my Merciful parent
The poem as a Peony a Book as Home.

Because they TOuched me first I touched them Too.

As Releasing a Century  I Knew

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