Dust of river
dried thirsty -
achingly quiet but
not alone in the wait
all green bowed
in prayer that
the sky will open
and quench sooner
than later.
Dust of river
dried thirsty -
achingly quiet but
not alone in the wait
all green bowed
in prayer that
the sky will open
and quench sooner
than later.
Crisp of page -
wilted edges
shrugged with story
dust of crease
crack of binding
dressed in gilded
shimmered scroll
Thumbskin black
with weep of ink
and I breathe
each word so
deep I taste it.
Cycling naked over
hills of stars
through blackest
night filled with hope
on the brink of tomorrow
I shudder with the
wind, but goosebumps
or not
I wouldn’t have it
any other way.
.
Written for: http://magpietales.blogspot.com/