Through the Looking Glass
Here, inside
Is the scent of death.
My mother said
The roses had died,
The roses have given their final breath,
The roses have bled
And turned white.
I thought I heard
A sound there
That hushed my cries.
Was it the coo of a bird?
Or your silly laugh? Your foot on the stair?
Or the heavy sighs
That you might
Hear from a weary old house
Settling in its tired foundation?
Yet in the mirror I swear,
In your minnie mouse
Pajamas, with boundless elation
I saw you were there
To kiss me goodnight.
This poem is property of Lissa Fulton and may not be used without written permission from the author
This poem is property of Lissa Fulton and may not be used without written permission from the author