Monday, May 17, 2010

The Familiar Call.

I heard the sound of my name
Drawn from the body of a scouring-rush.
Blooming from its frayed mouth
Was the head of a sunflower
With petals curling,
Slices of shade and dusty yellow.
A call played for my ears
A call that curved from the tip of each waving petal
Sung in a language without words.
Warm promises
Made by the trust of familiarity.
The neck of my mind's creation,
Feigning lifelessness,
All the while blowing notes and tender characters.
Rustling within rows in a field of dance partners.
A symphony for one,
All played by the wind;
A hundred flutes and a sunflower trumpet.

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