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Feast For the Senses


Feast NOW for the senses,

wait not for another time; 

For lines between living

and dying grow thin, 

When the artist is

beckoned to paint them. 


Be liquid blue tears

in the almond-eyed doe, 

Or the final flaring

of her damp, tired nostrils; 

Be the forgiving reds

from her belly, seeping silently

into icy white crystals of snow, 

Returning her blood like holy wine

to the welcoming browns of earth. 


Be the golden beak of a great bald one,

singing acappella through

a turquoise sky, 

Or the quiet strength in her sallow talons,

or the purple winds that

push from her wings. 


Be the gray fog, singing lullabies

to a raging sable sea. 

Be a wild-eyed fuchsia on the run,

dancing hot tango rhythms

without conscience;


And when all others have surrendered

to despair and darkness; 

Be the last lingering green stem of hope.


                                                   Vicky Cavin

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