drink cool water seeped
through stone from cliffside springs
onto your tongue…to taste eras there,
sip jeweled country pheasant brothed and
strained to hint of flight within its birding essence …
bite through the flesh of warm-ed figs…to taste the
green…first sprung through earthy loam upon a rocky hill,
gnaw wild deer ribs fire pit turned…spine cracked
to portions of anatomy… hot muscle oiled and
loosed to gamy strands of nourishment…we throw
the bones to darkness in the corners of the room
Bonnie Marshall
Proem... 
nice thinks.
And nice of you to think so. Smile.
ha…ha…
Smile.
Reblogged this on A Mirror Obscura, and commented:
Ms. Marshall excels in in this kind of poetry, of the body and mind at once–blending one into the other flawlessly. >KB
Such vivid language. Engaging!
“to taste the
green…first sprung through earthy loam upon a rocky hill”
You amaze me, Bonnie.
Then, that makes me very glad, Ward, for you amaze me.
Grateful thanks. Smile.