Tuesday, January 26, 2016

Living Voices


A few fresh petals
Each a growing thing
Sometimes to be shed, someone else
Make them heard
In the morning walk.

Much for others, others
Who may be silenced,
Mutate to white wings
And bird song is riddled
With long and short questions.

Somehow numbed, erased
The footprints are still asking
For living voices
As if in a dream, listening
Consenting, time to fill in alone.

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