When I look through the window
it seems as if
the fan's wind blows straight through the trees
and afternoon sunlight orchestrates
a shadow play
behind closed eyelids.
It's as if I am caught in a private exchange
light and wind
and I, in soft sheets
wrapped in sinewy cloths of imagination.
The silent things we do not witness
as we aren't around to look
fills the basin larger than anything
we could add.
No comments:
Post a Comment