Over the mountains
of the man’s  echoing story

i found the children
of the story huddled;
as commas blew like blizzards
on the crags of plot –
against  the  verbs of sky.

All i could do
was whisper.
“i do not understand you…”
but  still,  the words were beautiful
in the  reflection  of my  eyes
images i would carry like buckets
frozen in the vines of mind.