Modestly virginal
the Wren keeps Chaste in hiding
or just
unrevealed
to the naked eye that is
unworthy
Of pleasure.
A song
forming an exemplar picture,
shudders slowly from the freeze
caught between words
Lithe,
Supple, uneasy
She crawls on her knees.
Dauntlessly unjaded
the Wren clasps her wings
for she
does not understand
comprehend,
the windless night
It seems
Sleeping in quilts of straw
and leaves lying down
with a single petticoat,
she never takes flight with
wings
those frail, ivory wings.
A modern Guinevere
Floating the crest
of a zephyr rising
Setting
settling to the East
with frail,
ivory wings to her sides.
Grounded she stares
into blue eyes.
She feels
warmth
crying in agony for solace,
that finds its place
aloft an evergreen
that keeps the Wren whole.
Copyright 2005 D. Corey Sanderson (Tracer)
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