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Poetry By
  Sarah O'Scalaidhe

Published on: 4/3/2013
Calendar Pages

Is it summer haze or
frost on the window panes
that makes the world outside
so blurry?
Are the colors blossoms,
or are they falling leaves?
Seasons confuse me now,
ever since…
whenever that day was.

Published on: 4/1/2013

I pressed the flowers
between the pages
for months, to match
her new complexion,
before I put
them on her grave,
so she could still
feel pretty, like
she always was.

Published on: 3/29/2013
Her Symphony

The whispers dancing round your gentle face
Are streaming chords of silk arpeggio.
The beat of feathered drums gives up the pace
Just as the blues sing out both soft and slow.
Resounding notes of crimson stain the bell
With raging echos heard from silent cries,
And light staccato tones to kiss and swell
will break ones heart before the music dies.
It is the face of music that I see,
And now I'll offer it a harmony.

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