Winded by Michael DeMaranville

By Michael DeMaranville

I blow in the green
leaved tree house
often so gently
the cradle does not rock
gone before the sun
peaks through the purple curtain

I always return
whispering softly
I am here too.
But, your ears are honeywaxed
against the sirens cries
words wilt in waiting.

If I should rise
a typhoon torrent
naturally, disaster ensues.
You want me only in your summer’s heat
to slake your pinking skin

If only I could believe
you were hiding a candle
to look upon me
through night’s shadow
but I am here in daylight
yet, still out of sight

About Michael DeMaranville

Michael has had more than a dozen poems published in the past year, most recently in The Write Launch, The Finger, Genre: Urban Arts, and A Shanghai Poetry Zine. He has lived in numerous locations and countries and continues to drift whichever way fortune takes him.

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