Wet Stems

May Your Memories Rise ...

This paradox manifest: to write with no words. The feel of wet stems
Drop into memory, but the meniscus holds. Nothing spilt. (Yet.)

Slipping silently around newly found edges, feelings feint as
Fronds caress careful memories. Lit with gentle eye borne glowing.

Star staring spaces aroused, bursting out honest between tight banks.
Fluid as your husky swirling Afrasian tongues. Mouth opening

Into quiet quiescence? May your memories rise, float next mine.
Lotus flowers, feeding ancient starlight. Solemn, silent. (Alive.)

BY Pete Harpum
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