About The Oak Table Poem Number Four

Poem By Ivona Sophia

you brought me fresh cut flowers
this morning. the last of this autumn,
before the first frost. I wish I could
preserve their scent for winter evenings.
(I will find myself again in your voice
when you read for me
poems of Ezra Pound)

we live like hermits here, never asking for more,
self-sufficient, growing old
with the orchids behind the house.
on the table apples from
our tree. bittersweet taste under the skin,
with a juicy center.

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it continuously rains

you sleep
your breath calms the shadows

Everywhere In The World

everywhere in the world there are motels
with empty parking lots
waiting for couples
temporarily in love


the walls musty from humidity,
a dreary day
dusk pushes itself
under our clothes


your hands
clenched into fists
ten fingers
on which there still lie

Wild Strawberries

Wild strawberries
String together
On the long grass
Smell like a summer day

In Your Hands

In your hands
I am silk
Under the smooth stitch of fingers
I fold willingly.