Photo by Lance Keimig
10.28.2011
10.10.2011
9.09.2011
8.20.2011
8.08.2011
7.20.2011
7.10.2011
7.06.2011
6.30.2011
D, D, D, D, Dear Dark.
In the country that I live,
the trees move when the wind
blows.
On the mountain that I face,
rocks tumble gracefully,
respecting each other's turn.
Along the river where we are,
echoes of waves fly, punctuated
with salt.
I can make images come alive
but you will not come near.
I can touch a silver cord in every animal
but birds, they fly on.
The poetry of the world
is on fire, roman candles
Every drumbeat sounds
for your birth, I have made sure of it.
And I wish that your energy
would recognize it all and appear.
the trees move when the wind
blows.
On the mountain that I face,
rocks tumble gracefully,
respecting each other's turn.
Along the river where we are,
echoes of waves fly, punctuated
with salt.
I can make images come alive
but you will not come near.
I can touch a silver cord in every animal
but birds, they fly on.
The poetry of the world
is on fire, roman candles
Every drumbeat sounds
for your birth, I have made sure of it.
And I wish that your energy
would recognize it all and appear.
6.29.2011
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