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Joanna
by Tushar  Jain

Here's to 
the beauty of 
silent things,
elbows turning 
into seasons 
into waist 
that stretch long hours 
into thighs 
and moonbeam skin
and gold hair tangled 
up in sun, 
and eyes that 
linger in you
long after the rest 
of her has left

Joanna, you 
are a rage of flowers
soaked in July, a rush 
I could hold close in palms 
until time razes reason
from the sky, and colour 
edges to corners 
where shadows 
crawl to die
        
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Poem ID: 89242   Poem Posted: 2/11/2017
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