by on August 30, 2023 :: 0 comments

Sounds tug at me,
a worm’s soft tunneling, riffle
of an underground spring.

Leaves tell ghost stories,
clouds gently bruising
each other in the breeze.

Beyond this, in a place
with no wind, where every color
feels like silver, and sound

crawls through the thickest time,
the last words of a dying star

in this voice of dust and diamonds,
this creaky moan.
This language I don’t understand

becomes part of everything,
dead or living,
the ability to see

through the eyes
of every owl and wolf,
to enter a sleepless

camper’s mind or scatter
stories over the lake
like reflected stars.

editors note:

Not a sheep to count anywhere. – mh clay

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