Turf

my perimeter roughly sketched

in charcoal and pastels,

baggage that exceeds

the limit for flight.

granite gates

that i leave unattended.             

there you wander,

with the sun warmed dew 

on your soles like the press 

of my tear stained cheek.

you respect the fragility

of the preserve,

and i yield the fruits

of a clement heart’s balm. 

.

© M.G. Iannucci 2017

8 thoughts on “Turf

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