The role of a writer is not to say what we all can say, but what we are unable to say. ~Anaïs Nin
What else can be said, other than, enjoy the poem...
The Fringe of My Consciousness
Down inside the city limits,
fringing the cement squares
of unmoving names and dates
written into white concrete,
a solid river flows next to
the silver chain linked fence
where the green and red weeds,
the blinking dandelions, and
the final summer is over grown
into a life imprisoned
to a vacant littered lot.
A Monarch butterfly flutters by.
Softly, her winged defense succumbs
to the wondering wild flower; she
floats into the mystery of the stigma.
She has the feminine proboscis of want
as she is tenderly exposed to the
opening purple petals of where
a woman's vulnerabilities lie.
Submerged to a scent that makes
the Monarch a slave, like a
red headed witch dancing
on the blue comet in the sky,
the aroma is nectar to her heart,
beauty seeping into her soul,
each stem of laughter true,
each little burst of bliss confirmed,
all living inside the limits of the limitless.