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(Feathers and Cotton)
you asked a question, with
...that silence seems golden until songbird soars.
Grasping,
Fingers
follow and swell,
hollow
Hope hides in heaving breaths,
budding between the fences,
coaxing
each
out
of gate.
Dance in sandstorms,
heat-lightning lengthens
shadows splashed from
hot-lamp-street-light.
Serpentine rhythms
heat exchange
crying out for a
kiss from the cross breeze to
chill the spine, supine sparks fly
finger-tipped tendrils
tracing the life-lines of an
open palm.
The flashcards rapid-fire,
projecting behind flickering orbs of adoration;
streaming the tales of a
thousand possibilities--
floating in seas of flora,
laying buried beneath millions of their
solar-rayed satin tongues, shrouded in the bee's busy work;
hand-held happiness;
memorization of moment each time
eyes entangle across piles of feathers and cotton.
So yes-
sweet stellar existence,
an answer is deserved-so,
but when I entreat my mind to
speak
soft vocations of your affect on me,
pretty meets happy and
hallowed ground as such desires a quiet,
contemplative
consciousness before I
clatter in the clamor to
find speech in perfect-present-tense
to say......that silence seems golden until songbird soars.
Grasping,
Fingers
follow and swell,
hollow
Hope hides in heaving breaths,
budding between the fences,
coaxing
each
out
of gate.
Dance in sandstorms,
heat-lightning lengthens
shadows splashed from
hot-lamp-street-light.
Serpentine rhythms
heat exchange
crying out for a
kiss from the cross breeze to
chill the spine, supine sparks fly
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