Birds fly south
Always the autumn.
golden ripe air, blue teardrops.
The black-birds fly south.
South is not down, though
if we suppose that from here
To there it is flat,
Merely far away.
It is south in
my heart, though, like
A billion swings
Pushed from the top of
my brain to the mess
Tangled veins in my
Heart.
We drink the same stars
gaze through the same maple wind
Feel cinnamon drape
O'er our shoulders
like a fine dust, dust like your eyes
That can kiss my mind
They leave a small trail
scattered brown flecks of sunset
Beautiful music
Notes with wings of birds
fleeting. straying. suddenly
Vanishing; subito
Piano.
Not gone but softly
there but not here yet it hurts
Not to let the birds fly south
Friday, November 6, 2009
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
