Poetry

[eurydicebound]

Words hang in air as thin
as snow in late spring,
trying hard to cover ground
too warm to bear its passing.
Echoes hang behind,
whispers, shadows, rumors
of what once flew rich,
full-ripened, swaying
in the breezes above
summer’s wanton breath.
The answer comes, blown
soft against a lover’s cheek,
damp and warm as breath against skin.
Asked and answered,
the words immaterial,
over and over and over again.