Poem by Doniell Cushman
Painter of the porcelain dame
Clasping the late spring bouquet
Irises caress her rounded chin
As her wandering eyes betray no grin
Luxe off-shoulder gown with lace
Stands out against the greyish haze
A crown of blooms cradles her head
And perhaps, she's a bit coquette
Who was your model, and where did she go?
With a sigh, I suppose, we'll never really know
© Doniell Cushman. All Rights Reserved. This poem or any portion thereof
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