The sound of birds
Tires on pavement The cool breath of mid April Through the window My lungs too fill with this life As all creation wipes sleep from crusty eyes And yawns, stretching frozen ligaments Toes sprout from beneath winter quilts Touching cool floor to tender skin My lungs and this house too exhale With white steam from black coffee And melting butter on warm toast As somewhere a radio speaks Of real problems in imaginary lands Are the birds aware? Do they see my movement As a response to their own Through the window?
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Me (in words.)Sometimes I like to write. Not well, mind you. But I do it just the same. Archives
November 2018
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