The Bird
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A breeze,
silken, warm
carrying the scent of roses
touches, caresses my cheek

A bed, 
white, swathed in gauze
moonlight coats your body
sheened with sweat

A caress,
feather light, barely felt
curtains flow in the breeze
roses grow outside the window

A dying rose on my mantle,
alive, but briefly
as our love
forgotten, discarded


N. Aucoin July 20/95