Dedicated to snatches of song that can sum up your state of mind at that moment. To those song- writers and poets who string words together that anyone can own. To my own pen, that can create pieces of song, though rare...
The word unfolds, gathers up wind
To speed the crane's flight
North of my sun to you.
I am shaping this poem
Out of paper, folding
Distances between our seasons.
This poem is a crane.
When its wings unfold,
The paper will be pure and empty.
Post a Comment
No comments:
Post a Comment