Spinning

It was as if the ghost

Of Pasternak had its

Invisible prints

All over this.

Perhaps the new moon,

The unexpected snow,

The Zhivago like setting.

Virgo had pulled another

Question from her purse,

She had the best questions,

They always inspired

A verse or two or three

Or more,

Those who read

Might have thought

They met secretly in bed,

They never did,

Just spun naked in

The empty park,

Blew kisses in the dark

In that place

Where poets pick

 And play with phrases,

 She shyly smiling sweetly

The mystic lover, unknown mother,

Of the words you’re reading.

Stephen Nesbitt ©