Sunday, January 31, 2010


A Fresh bloom-spread,
over a plush glow.
Her new dress?
No! The print
a darker tan of red;
he turns to look again.

Waves shallow n soft,
a morning spray as Sunday sets.
Her new mane?
No! The stream reflects,
sure a deeper twirl,
he had to look again.

Mist, white and light;
lukewarm - the breath.
The smoke in chains?
No! A whitish halo
from a fighting lung.
Kokeshi, the christened doll.

(Kokeshi, a Japanese doll... She caught my eye in the newsroom...)

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