Columbine

Columbine’s sweet fragrance dangles.

Like a rusted clasp on a string of pearls, while

the morning doves obsessively peck at nothing. The,

pair, life’s ethereal mate.

No, bands to bind them. Only

the soft echoes of their calling. 6,

am nursery rhymes, While,

last night’s drink still sits. Warm,

Left alone to enjoy the moon’s stories.

It’s, contents removed quietly.

Like, an infant nursing on a mother’s breast.

Now, filled with the wet ends of stale cigarettes.

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Tags: doves, fragrance, poem, poems, poetry, poets corner, rusted clasp, string of pearls, writing, writing poetry