Image: © CDL
Author: CDL
Drops of Spinsterhood
In our pond I float.
Sick of my condensed perfume,
time to leave this tepid room.
You boiled, remember,
dreamt about our infusion
until, encouraged
by my ‘whole leaf’ pretension,
I danced out of your pink water.
Again, why did I think
that the half-full cup you’d kept
was cold without tea?
I dived back in. While I slept,
you spat us into the sink.
On the table (cherry wood)
now crawl sodden leaves who would
rather dry than rot.
CDL