Saturday, August 23, 2014

There will be your season now
Like drums rolling
& maps laid out neath diving trees

Some sort of wild stampeding
Then a calling near the docks
To spy an injured wing
& I will watch it till it heals
To wave it on, pressing it
Wander far, sweet soul

The sun will set over my
Windswept hair
& all the earth will sound like a
Crackling record

So many words on folded paper
Letting go does not mean – forget