Artwalk POETRY and ART

circles heaven.
It bobs in a garden of buds
ready to burst into bloom
her hair strands a jungle of thyme
rosemary, raspberry
and roses wound into a shrub
that must have existed
in the first garden at dawn.
Her face is an arbour of light
her eyes welling springs
her tapered fingers tracing
her curved body
as she sings of names
and rhymes to Mozart’s music.
I listen to her coddle her unborn
as I crooned to her decades ago
and I fold my wings and rest
in the sound of our dance
my daughter and I here
weaving our dreams
from the springs of our wombs.