Friday, October 16, 2009

the nest

drifting strands of music
rustles the grass
in green meadows painted in the sky
ruffling my feathers as I gather

twigs of your thoughts
one after another after another
dry, dusty and brittle
softening them
with taste of our wetness
lingering in my beak
weaving a nest
in one nook of
the old sacred tree
where our silences
pause to listen
to dreams making love