American River Review 2019 - Flipbook - Page 29
The Thistle Dew Drop
Rishikesh Vilash
The early ray holds as glimmer, the orbed frost
on the thistle dew drop. I think fealty’s lost
when olive winds sob sutras to Apollo.
Now, I know Cupid created cry-willow
as inter-rest, per sense, on a forgotten
Vishnu borrow: but, dew drop’s misbegotten
to prey the kiss-new wind since prayers, gilt-clad,
often lack shadow. “It’s okay,” she had said,
“willows droop lilacs black, you don’t have to love
me back.” With that she had turned, sleeves darkened mauve—
love’s caprice, time’s choice—so blew the thistle dew
breeze. A rainbow debt, the Crimson Arc hope rescue:
“It’s okay,” she had said, “willows droop lilacs black,
I love you, but you don’t have to love me back.”
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