Today would have been my sister Tamara's 70th birthday, had she lived. Five years have passed swiftly since the untimely death of my sibling, who supported me creatively, and, when I needed it, financially - the reason I called her "Theo," as Vincent van Gogh called his benefactor-brother.
This poem of mine was her favorite. Thanks, Theo!
Ladybug
Ladybug, the autumnal, menopausal forest is aflame,
Burning with your yearning and desire: go home.
No season of mists or mellow fruitfulness for you, only
The hot flash of Eros dying, growing old.
Burning with your yearning and desire: go home.
No season of mists or mellow fruitfulness for you, only
The hot flash of Eros dying, growing old.
Fall now, the deep loam envelopes your breasts,
Dugs that hang low. The crimson leaves as
Veined as your hands, varices red and blue,
Glitter with last dew, the brilliance before death.
Dugs that hang low. The crimson leaves as
Veined as your hands, varices red and blue,
Glitter with last dew, the brilliance before death.
Can you, withered Phoenix, rise?
Female over fifty, do you have your music, too?
Female over fifty, do you have your music, too?
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