You were her cashmere shawl
when times were frost and ice.
She ate it like hungry moths --
folded longing's powder wings,
returned to that house empty of love --
its staircase climbing nowhere now.
Leave her to the attic's dust,
to sorrow spinning its gangly web.

This bitter fugue of loneliness
I wish one touch could blow away,
and so I reach across the miles.
I wish our loves weren't rose trees
straining to stand in gusts of fickle winds.
I hate the thought of you
staring at slices of ivory moons
cheated of orbits true to the heart.
 

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about the author:
Janet Buck is a six-time Pushcart Nominee. Her poetry has recently appeared in Octavo, The Pittsburgh Quarterly, CrossConnect, The Montserrat Review, Offcourse, The Pedestal Magazine, The Oklahoma Review, Facets Magazine, and hundreds of journals worldwide. Janet's third print collection, Beckoned by the Reckoning, is now available from PoetWorks Press.
E-mail: jbuck22874 (at) aol (dot) com
Websites: http://members.aol.com/jbuck22874/whatsnew.html and http://www.janetbuck.com.  

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