Just no ways to bridge the miles
That span the distances
Tween that first step
And the last, darling
Trail the back forty where
Shouts disappear into
Nothingness or go far up
The hills echoing
Into mornings into
Stories
Storied tales the brave tell
Like proverbs said
On prophets tongues
Or made up
Fairies breaths
Resound
On every path that led
To there from here
Or roundabout
Through brush
And weeds the wind
Does.
Bring.
A certain taste, a tongue
One touch of flesh
A night among
The purest
And the fair.
How then becomes this
Long away longing call
On winters dying gasp
Along a sliver of
A chill
This only fate, my dear,
My sweet, this but a faintest
Breeze, that calls my
Ear to render tender
Whispers
Of the leaves.