Is there no limit to the humility?
Thy frail tears delight the male measure,
for thee I donned lily-of-the-valley.
Oh, do not trouble me with your kerchief sir.
My woman bosom has often bristled;
staring at blank windy seas.
Your ardour for me has fizzled;
brutish pet, I foresee an accolade of furious bells,
whirl wildly despite your weaponry.
If they could carry the weight of my gladness;
mirth meets my lips standing by in great revelry.
Petals soothe my feet as you, sir, become breathless.
I and my feathered feet
shall pounce and dance home to a minuet beat.
by Gisele Vincent-Page
* * * * *
This is part of a series of featured entries in our first-ever poetry contest.
Stay tuned for more and get ready to vote for your favorite!