by Cynthia Beecher
They switch places
To learn what the other knows
She usually leads
Her arrows ready
The gold dipped tips
Sharp and intuitive
It’s her turn to ride in back
He rides forward
Free to lead her
He can no longer say
I only went along
She never before saw his flowers turning into butterflies
Nor felt the breeze of wings
Never tasted the nectar drops carried by the flower
Shaken from the tip of the butterfly tongue
Taste my nectar
Lift my face to the sun
Warm my brown face
Heat up my ears
Wake up my dreams
There is no destination
Only you
Only me
Cynthia Helen Beecher spent nine years on the continent of Africa, beckoned there to witness original humanity. She is the author of The Rainmaker’s Dog, and has published photography, non-fiction, poetry, and short stories. She will write until all the stories are told.
Last 5 posts by Guest Poet
- A Poem by Daniel Coshnear - December 17th, 2010
- The River and The People - December 17th, 2010
- Immigrant Girl - December 17th, 2010
- I Feel the Cold Embrace - June 29th, 2010
- Friday in Novato ~ by Patricia McCaron - March 3rd, 2010
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