Essence
My brows arch,
become migrating geese,
sharply raised,
unlike swooping arc of hawk
midsummer.
Reminisce not
the perfume of gardenias,
but mist myself
with decaying leaves
and woodsmoke.
Pumpkin fields adorn my skirt,
tumble upon porches
as I pirouette, dance
with apple trees
and crisp, whispering wind.
Am accused of being fickle,
A bit reserved. Yet...
beneath a cozy comforter
I kiss you, leave the taste
of cinnamon upon your lips.
by Margaret Bednar, October 12, 2025
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