The Vision
April 16, 2012 by Christine Primavera
She wore a wreath
of silver green,
pressed amid
her chestnut curls.
Her satin slip
draped underneath,
her velvet dress
adorned with pearls.
Blessedly unenlightened
by her soothing spirit,
her vision floats
without a care.
A simple nudge,
she blows a kiss,
it brushes my cheek,
yet it’s barely there.
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