Benjamin Jenkins, poem, poems, poetry, writing

In some circles

The number thirteen is cursed.

Words break that pendant.

Thirteen roses wither on twine

Hanging from the vanity, red and white.

They transcend their lustrous plush

Into an eternity of sentimental paper.

Tied with hemp and a prism of quartz

Thirteen dried roses, collect dust.

White light shattering into a spectrum of color

Always reminds me of morning.

On my fingertips rest her eyes in the state that owns autumn.

She dreams of a room:

Crystals hanging from the sky

Like stalactites of ice.

A willow weeping its dream catchers

Over blankets of woven wildflowers

And pillows of cumulus clouds.

The sea breeze crosses the distance

Over miles of Lake Ontario shoreline.

The bed is warm and comfortable

Listen to Jack’s snores.

On Saturdays during the harvest

Soil is rubbed from potatoes,




Concocted into something edible.

The Meat Man sells stock bi monthly

The line is slow but worth the wake

Summer is always worth the wait

Another winter on the downhill melt.

Green buds promise rebirth,

Some are not so lucky.

The crystal ball has you believe

The wheel is capable;

Equal parts misfortune; fervent desire.

You read my cards the last time I left;

Never have a string of words resonated so profoundly.

My departure points to wonder.

Would the moth blessed with hindsight

Review the flame or cocoon?


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