The mourning doves
trail me
from San Francisco
light
and haunt
with woodwind notes.
I've lived long
been moved, met
stone,
known sorrow, lost,
been taught, atoned. So
lose me, find me
follow me across
wide pools
plains and ranges,
calling: loss is gain,
truth fluid
that which sears,
which burns to keen
will lift to float
and cool you at the end.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment