It’s
easy as this—
slipping
the pinion
don’t
judge
compare
compete,
or
have an
opinion
or
bother existing.
Wind Song
To be
the way the wind takes.
The
frayed ends of curtain lace
dust the
sill, your hand unseen,
and only
make your way between.
Shake
the coppice row and wend
passed
the wind chimes, through the fence.
The
hushed rummaging of leaf
and
letter. You brush against belief.
Two
roads when you begin alone
who goes
with you where you have known
the rose
that bends out from the stand,
what
moves in you eludes the hand.
What's the deal with the mannequins. Hubba, hubba.
ReplyDeleteJust kidding. I love all the pictures, and the poem is excellent.
These two lines:
**The hushed rummaging of leaf
and letter. You brush against belief.**
Whoa ... I love it.