Sunday, March 12, 2006
Spoken Boughs
You are the tree I lean against in contemplative prose As pregnant clouds birth raindrops falling into my cup like a river overflowing tears of joy and angst For as the tree you stand steadfast and pity not the mortal that I be Your roots in terra-firma mock my contemplations The Sage of Time a thousand years ago with wisdom full wrested more desperate than me I, a babe in the woods, pull close the garment Anguish as wind whips and sirens about the bitter chill of mockery laughs against my...
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