Tuesday, April 24, 2007

First Spring

Long grass, swaying
like a devout on sunday
bend down and carefully brush
The tired and sad from my face
Blissful amber stripes where the
Sun draped its gauzy arms
Across ribs, a silent zylophone plays
As the boule rolls into a deep blue
And a breathy breeze whispers
Stories drawn through like a rhythmic
song: waves of cloud accumulate
Too cool for words to float
Alongside the gathering gloam

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