Pigeon shadows ripple like perch over sunlit maples glittering post rain. Heart knocking on breast bone after dusk but breath itself was slower. Apple trees cycling through the seasons in a single day. 'Twas lavender, was it not? And rolling candles down hill was the color green. But which past - and whose.
Soar. At night footsteps as soft as gossamer trailing through forest. A proclivity for lyricism parented by grace. The tulip petals sloped outward like antique umbrellas. Then fell. The moment elongates then until "beginning" and "end" arrived at artificial and didn't want to leave.
Sailing, slipping. Saying what one feels with arms open and eyes gliding through fingers like a magician's coin. The brook is shadows on both sides but marred by tracks. A duck walks with its head down and asks no questions of its hunger. Seedlings being a manifestation of prayer for those who have time. The genealogy of tomatoes, or maybe instead raspberries.
Not what a whisper would have you think nor what else. But at last along what measure, what road, love uttered its dream, of horses looking up.
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