Your Nature

Silver-speckled trail
of snails or birds.

The way grass sprouts
thin and green.

The dying rose browning
to its edges, leaning

on its stem.

Night prowling in on
furry paws, its sharp

teeth gnashing; at last
defiant towards its gender

dons its glowing yellow gown
each and every morning.

And then, there is your body,
lit up with an inner flame,

to which all moths or women
trust themselves again, again

even as you burn them.


Marty said...

Very nice poetry...

Rachel Phillips said...

Thank you Marty for your comments.