The shy-grass dresses
For morning guests, and old doves
Sing softly of it
The shy-grass dresses
For morning guests, and old doves
Sing softly of it
Hinged from green velour
The dome towers high and wide
Where he can stay lost
the breathing waters,
a whisper in the sea-oats
saying, “you belong”
beneath gray hangings
nine voices across the field
long for sooner spring
spare, cold interstice:
a winter tree awaiting
her deliverance
we were showered by
the prismatic flower rain
and loved completely
[The authors of this blog would like to categorically state that they are not on drugs. No, really.]
fall, in its shyness
sends out whispers on the breeze
heard only by sight
dealing with life, you
close your eyes to feel something
other than alone
january’s reach:
seasonally adjusting
calibrated souls