Between Sheets

The yolk of the December sun
splashes on eggshell walls,
escaping the glassy cold as

soft songs voyage
from the radio
to the island of my bed.

They glide, slide,
slip between sheets,
wrap warm arms around my waist and
stir me into milky blankets.

I stretch and
hair pours over pillows, in it
melodies tangling and twinkling.

The folding and unfolding

a butterfly net,
catch whirring words which

float and flutter
skin and cotton,
field and sky,
breathy breezes

they perch on the eager hands of
flowers, moss,
and grass.

(I am a love letter in an envelope.
Open me.)

by Zoe Schwab

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Comments (1)

The imagery in that has made a guy from cold grey london quite happy Nice structure Graham