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A Poet's

PlayGround

The Woman

6/20/2019

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Picture
The woman
in the wrinkled teal scrubs
and dripping mascara
talks to me through
whispers
cascading through the
ether
on their own heroes
journey.
The whispers, themselves
alive
just trying to find their 
way home
between my arms
and into my heart
so they can finally speak
and sing the harmony
my desperate ears
and wandering mind
only now,
years later
would know
as the birth
​of love.
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    Poetry

    Because all that science just gets old after a while.

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