Sunday, July 22, 2007

Still, the Branches Lean on the Path to my Creek

Look at the flowers that bloom this spring.
Down by the creek at my house.
From the earth a symbol of friendship, love, sorrow.
And if only a rose then at least a rose for those,
Those that aren’t here to give anyone a rose.

Hark, at the same time the moon rises.
There you are against the horizon,
It bows to the illuminated wonder of your reluctance.
And not reluctance, but more than we can foresee,
At least until the unforeseeable can be foreseen.

Stilt my legs up, make me tall.
Hush, the creek water flows around my wooden legs.
A small wave of resistance splashes either side of my new leg.
And my real legs stay dry to the bone, and you were holding on,
but I don’t know if you held my old legs or my new legs.

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