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
.
3 comments:
I love the last stanza! :-)
beautiful...
gathring dry, brittle twigs of thoughts and then softening them with the lingering wetness...
beautiful...
i like this one. But this sort of morning-evening-dusky imagery is something new in your writing. The dark, foreboding thing in your poetry is not present here.
But I love the pauses in the silence here:-)
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