A loosely spun cocoon
Twisted at the ends
Swelling outwards
Ripe like a bursting plum
Soft and sweet and sour
By the winter the squirrels will have at it
I race on my bicycle to the outskirts
Wheels spinning in the dark swirling storm
Where nothing meets something
I might have learned
One can wait in joy
One can wait in agony
It is all the same
What if we had the fourth sense
The one denied us
Waiting in the wings
© 2008 Audri Phillips
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