Jane H. and Mary O.

One is quiet, dark like corner
where heart sits thinking, the other
examining a small pink shell
flooded with morning's light...

beetle black as schist, sweet
swan bathed in silver, milky-soft.

Inside, purpose sharpens like
a sword, outside every bird rejects
ambition to lean towards warmth.
As such, the rose holds little meaning

without its well-placed thorn.

1 comment:

Rosemary Nissen-Wade said...

I don't know Jane H but I love Mary O and see in your work some of the qualities I admire in hers.