Friday, October 15, 2010


(First posted here)

There’s that postcard of you,
the small dancing hairs
on your neck like you had
as a baby, and that bead
of sweat, running
just down below the collar.
I slice my tongue
along its worried edge,
and it tastes like rain.

Rachel Westfall
October 15, 2010


christopher said...

I replied on my site, now am adding to yours...

(((Rachel W)))

The Post Card

Did it arrive, then?
I sent you my youth, my song
of the summer's way
with the white gold hair
sunshine gave me in those days.
God's bead of grace acts
exactly like sweat
running down my sacred form.
That's why my soft edge
tastes so much like rain.

OCTOBER 15, 2010 9:31 PM

Anthony Duce said...

I’ve been enjoying your words, these last few days since finding the site. I like them all. And this the latest to fall for…. Thank you.

RachelW said...

(((Christopher))) Thank you!

Anthony, welcome, and thanks for commenting!

christopher said...

I recommend Anthony's site, my friend. He is a serious artist.

Rob-bear said...

The Bear sees,
and wonders,
about the essence
of the poetry
and the dance.
The dance of the fly
upon the water,
or the butterfly
circling and cycling
through the alpine meadow.

Anonymous said...

I look at some letters I've kept from long-ago sometimes.

Beautiful <3