From tree to tree

whatever we looked at flashed its small beacon of light;
whatever we touched pressed back with its own question.
What the leaves shaped in the air
with their motion spoke with the subtexts of wind.
When we sighed we set screen doors
swinging at dusk.
What kisses we left in the grass
were bright as mirrors stitched on cloth.

 

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Series Navigation← DysecdisisDia de los Muertos →

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