No ocean at her feet
Or waves that caress
Just birds from her eyes
That seek greener lands
Where roots and branches
Gently collide.
The purr of a cat
The roar of a lion
Swords of morning are
drawn
In the shade of tomorrows
With nimble words that
fade
Like whispers under a
quilt.
Hesitant but sure of
tomorrows,
Deaf to all but blind to
some,
Lost in her music,
I begin to sing.
No comments:
Post a Comment