Heliodora’s
dear paradoxes of doves

match

golden glows
hidden deep in tiger-eyes

. . . . .

three processions
move on as wavelengths

latch

onto soft chains
scored by vanished races

. . . . .

sweet sighs
last heard in April-lands

link

countrysides
full of children straying

. . . . .

oddest lovers
only multiply at midnight

like

blind overseers
melting snow-pearls by day

. . . . .

greenest clover
covers ants, fallen fables

while

women poets
chisel words left unsaid

. . . . .

fidelity hides
beyond fierce outer circles

outside

circumferences
not ours alone to embrace

. . . . .

everything wilts
when summer stands still

though

mothers’ silences
recall distant metaphysics

. . . . .

midsummer rites
reveal lovely, sweaty choices

while

moonshine’s milky
where rhododendrons grew

. . . .

Found poetry by Susan Powers Bourne
Source: Women.Poets | Washington