Sunday, June 13, 2010

Holding Hands



crickets whisper secrets to evening's breezes,
there where grass ends and trees begin.
limbs sway, heat of day rescinds
its sentence of old madness;
cool air invites to breathe
once again, and deeply,
sweet in flowers unseen
twilight descended;
mingled fragrance
renewed stale blood
coursed though veins;
and firefly flashes
now understood,
as brilliant as stars
that shine overhead
when stopping for rest
on an outstretched arm,
if only for a moment mine;
while starlight, never invested,
remains always at distance, and silent.
those unanswered questions, tonight, less pressing
Amid hushed murmurs of insects and thrushes at home in the wood

1 comment:

  1. It's a work of art. Sigh. Some people have all the clever ideas, while the rest of us stagger along predictably, with our 2-lane-boring sentence fests falling into place, like punctual tiles at a pyramid party, lol. It should be positioned more like a waterfall though, the way the words slide gently down the slopes, gradually widening to patient pools at the bottom.

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