white clover tresses


in cherry blossom rain,

whisper the names

of each slivered shard 

of self

mourned and lost,

as hem brushes way.


the winged ones,

harvest trinkets

from constellations,

birthing a desire 

to bind unclothed emptiness

to substance of earth.


we lay poised 

on the branchtips

breasts bared to sky,

a reflection of lives

emblazened with light.

© M.G. Iannucci 2017

Art: Traces by Nik Helbig

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