For Natarma.
Dancing like flowers on midsummer air the windows are still.
The flames on the shoreline come to thee you dance a spanish waltz.
For your time is now weaved into yarn that lays at your nervous heels.
Your laces of your face seem to lay down deep like a fawn.
John Singleton
(C) All Rights Reserved. Poem Submitted on 09/29/2021
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