Hours slip through my heart,
empty.
Wind wakes, cools me.
No, midge, youcannotcrawloverthispagerightnow.
I'm busy.
A lone bird chirps like a squeaky dog toy in a pup's jaws:
obnoxious, melodic?, pedantic?, not hypnotic.
Wind shakes, peels, strips my sweater from my ribs.
I wait in this garden to hear a song.
The Prayer Tower chimes an electronic hymn.
I wait for it to end.
For the real song to begin.
-4.13.2014
YOU ARE READING
Skin
PoetryPoetry. A touch of travel writing: Ethiopia, Oxford, Belgium, Colorado. A lick of nature writing. Some grief. All poetry.
