Sunday, April 14, 2013

The shallow puddles have whispered a story

The shallow puddles have whispered a story
between the oaks and pines. I can't tell
what's real and what isn't, I have written
about the wandering stars. The lights write
in misunderstood languages another story
that we've interpreted. The birds have told
the branches their religion, the bugs tell
the grasses of their art. I have to write
her out so I can know her. The histories
are a story we have told in writing.

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