What you call the screech of redwing
I call harmony.
Where yellow claws might rip flesh
I feel a tender hawk.
Far from the black tarn of human eyes
I stand rooted in soft fog.
In a white breeze blown upwind
I find a tickling that, finger funny,
ripples through my uplift leaves.
Sunday, June 30, 2013
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment
Yes?