The day turns to its quiet hidden hour,
the sky drifts from me,
witholds its words.
Even the great white clouds,
that would embrace the meadows,
the warm, recieving mouths of the sunflowers,
the migrating seeds,
now lift above the peaks,
stilled by a sadness
that would not touch this fragile world
in its perishable afternoon.
A bird, at last, passes,
sliced by the wires,
emerges out the other side to song,
and I can lower my eyes
to the humming earth,
the silence broken,
the heart recieved.
Advertisements
