Green leaves at the window submarine my room.
A drift of wind, then still,
This waiting, haikued day.
All the journeys in the world are waiting too,
For our telling and retelling, rummaging for words
To pleasingly adorn, but pointedly, the page;
Voices for another life to hear, maybe, and find their road.
Till all the storms of self subside,
Our ghost voices left to breathe from shades,
And whisper on a wind that always knew the lines,
As others ride the chattering of their days.
So come with me, to silence. Stay.
- There are no words for truths of Being With.
The million little brush strokes of the willows -
They simply say: just dance today.
For MWF
Summer 2014
Aug 7, 2014
Aug 7, 2014 at 11:15 AM UTC
Green leaves at the window submarine my room.
A drift of wind, then still,
This waiting, haikued day.
All the journeys in the world are waiting too,
For our telling and retelling, rummaging for words
To pleasingly adorn, but pointedly, the page;
Voices for another life to hear, maybe, and find their road.
Till all the storms of self subside,
Our ghost voices left to breathe from shades,
And whisper on a wind that always knew the lines,
As others ride the chattering of their days.
So come with me, to silence. Stay.
- There are no words for truths of Being With.
The million little brush strokes of the willows -
They simply say: just dance today.
For MWF
Summer 2014
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