poem 21 July 2014

A soft flow of sweet milk drips down

from the vault of the sky,

from the stars

Onto the dry crust of thirsty bread

that is the baked earth,

the land.

I have kissed her cheek and her hand

and with my own hand

carressed her face

And numbered and named the celestial

bodies just to see the corners

of her pouting lips

Raise up like unattended balloons

with strings cut by jesters

and without anchors.

Then the drip of milk becomes a trickle

and the bread of the earth

cracks and crumbles

But the stars in the sky persist,

the stars forever flowing

and her lips rising.

RR Shea