like lead on paper the tactile scratch
of winter rakes her rusty back
dusting each day for fingerprints
our only hint that somewhere near
she hides. like water in the well
down under, below within
where the moist and rich grows
before making its appearance, sacheting
across a dark-soiled stage where
dirt crawls up her dress and
spreads her limbs, surrounds her cracking skin,
pushing until she explodes in climax of more
but for now, shivering haunches huddle
encased in dead and dying promises
night and dark have outwrestled
her brighter self, denying ascension
in her tomb of untouched virginity
she longs in unrequited passion
and, donning the satin sash of evening,
the smoky grey of night blows her tender kiss
to the shameless, bright day
and whispers, “adieu.”
See this and other cool photos at www.fiercefragile.com
Rob's Lit-Bits 
A poem of great beauty. Thank you for letting us read it, Robert.
“Letting us read it”…goodness, Penny-Anne, I am the one honored whenever anyone, anyone, reads my poetry. I thank you, sweet girl!
Well, well – very different style. Me thinks you are yet branching into different directions… nice.
I’ve inundated myself in Pacific Northwest poets lately, 5 whole books in just over a week. They are brave and unashamed in their imagery. I’m just trying to, as you suggest, “branch out” in new directions.
The imagery here is very strong, Rob. I think that’s a direction to follow, to seek those images which grip with the heart with the purity of their syllables…
Ooh, “purity of their syllables”…I’m stealing that!
🙂 A thief in the pulpit. Gotta love that…
Darlin’, there isn’t a pulpit out there, ecclesiastical or otherwise, that hasn’t shamelessly plagiarized or stolen material from somewhere!