Four Petals of Elizabeth



Her nipples are pierced

by horseshoe      silvers,

a hedonist's         ledger

in the hard times      of the soul.



Her shoes are too small

for such crude accounting,

for such tender resignation

as Elizabeth in my arms.



Her eyes are often locked

on mine as we coax petals

from Rapeseed -         yellow

as this love at arm's length.



Her rule for the           pillow

is not to bend it. The canopy

is not to be disturbed. We lie,

on the bed,            slivers of light.

© Alacrity Stone