Cynosure

you focused the lens

without telling me

what to see.

my Self, 

the tin ceiling 

capturing conversation

lost to passersby.

.

there is 

this steady waiting

at the corale gate

for love 

to nuzzle the hand,

as we stand 

at the mosiac horizon

with a bottomless 

loss for words.

.

only the inner knowing 

renders the complicated

into a sweet reduction.

the discipline

is our only tether.

receipt was not

the bliss.

the joy 

was in feeling 

you give.

.

this season,

the petals will not 

fall.

.

Photo: Flowers from Albertus Magnus College campus (New Haven, CT)

Β© M.G. Iannucci 2017

 

7 thoughts on “Cynosure

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