Pulse

i.

We breathe within
scurries of
second hands
skimming hours
by minutes against
illusion's pasty face.



ii.

Our garden;
a spectral moment
shivering with youth's
lithe fingers as
we reach for naked branches
Autumn already found
in the path that
lies behind.


iii.

Night air creeps,
sways blossoms
held close to heart.


vi.

All amass to her
welcoming brine
where we grew,
became, and wept
within each swell;
parading her
ebb and flow
beyond a dark
horizon.


v.

It is but
an instant
held secret
as evening's
slumber bids us
goodnight.




Pamela A. Lamppa
Copyright © 2017
All Rights Reserved