Until The Light Gets In

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By Carol J Forrester

She’d stuff the teapots
with carrier bags.
Oranges, blues, yellow, and pinks,
sunsets wrapped in ceramics,
perched on window sills.

Later they came to pieces
in her hands.
Plastic wilting like dried up roses,
shuddering beneath soft touches
and wasting away to dust.

We took turns choosing,
turning them over,
shaking the remains loose
from the curved bones
of these empty shells.

I keep carrier bags
in my teapot.
Oranges, blues, yellow, and pinks,
sunsets wrapped in ceramic,
perched on a window sill.

         
Carol J Forrester “plays around with words too much to say for sure which are her favorites.”

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