Blue Blurred
It is stained,
the glass I see you through,
red-lined like the lips
of the few white roses
you would not take
after your last visit.
They are, you said,
thorn-less and thirsting,
much the way I thirst
for your welcome home
just in time for spring
violets to blur my blues.
© 2015 Maureen E. Doallas
Tuesday, February 17, 2015
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