Chrysalis  < read by Melody

 

Three days of white

threads wound

fine

around

around.

 

Three days of light

shrouded linen

fine

white

light woven.

 

Three days of . . .

 

             Where hast thou laid him?

 

And she thought

Are his wings still wet?

 

When he said

Touch me not.

 

 

 

Melody earns a living as a registered nurse, grows a respectable garden, and writes when she's not building sheet forts with her grandkids. Her poetry has appeared in on-line journals, Segullah, Irreantum and small press along the Wasatch Front.

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