Trinidad Poetry #1 by Ginette T Bellemy skin is soaked in the heat of the evening
wet fingertips from the hollow in my neck
music like soft curls of smoke
lazily drifting from the chimney tops
smell of burning leaves
curtains dancing across the tile patio
dinner next door
who knows
it's just a familiar
childhood scent
that came alive
when I stepped into my grandmother's house 07/21/2003 Posted on 07/22/2003 Copyright © 2024 Ginette T Belle
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