Out-with the confines of one mind
I reach for the reaching season
Give the visions time to redefine
There is a break that isn’t broken
A continuum of the weavers line
With words that remain unspoken
As if this journey is so free of sign
Without the scope of trap, or treason
Before the stateliness of humankind
Weep for the last, of past preseason
Retain the tears, preserved in brine
There is a tool that is no token
As insidious as the words it finds
Out of our windmills thus awoken
As if the turning, was so still in time
Further than the last horizon
Nearer than the heart so kind
I smile at the frieze to lean-on
Offer gifts, so infinite, and sublime
 |
| Available on Kindle |