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Wednesday, November 15, 2006

Sonorous Stories

Put your hand to your heart.
Can you feel the rainstorm,
and envisage sunsweetened dew
turning red on maple leaves?
Can you feel the spirit
that roams the mountains there?
Dunes of multi-lipped breeze
sing in the wind,
tracing the pine trails
to a hidden forest.
There is a certain hum
robed in the shape of a name;
it whispers my name,
a sonorous end to sobriety,
as night falls burnished
with the moonlight to its bed,
the two lay famished.

Put your hand to my heart
and time your fingers
to my breathing.
Can you feel the beating
of hard hooved ponies lifting
up from the loam
and the sheaves of corn,
crying exhulted hosannas
under breath and over dale?
Can you smell the honest earth,
the noblest aroma,
running with riverbrooks that
wet the tired traveller's toes,
and houses gold skinned fishes,
skimming ebony pebbled eddies
and currents, carrying wishes
throbbing in the evening.

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