Tags
breath, distance, home, life, longing, love, memory, remembered to home, sometimes, story, time, truth
busy me
with breathing
broken vine
of write me down
strain
to tell (again)
these stories I’m become
(the memory)
of tears
shed to seed the
only morning after
where thunder –
silent strumming
tho none (but one) can hear
wings against this waking
remind my soul
(commit my heart)
to dream
night birds
just beyond the reach
of reaching (into day)
secrets
sworn to flannel
rest beneath my
willing
words
(where none
are needed)
beyond what love
can say
. . .
tornadoday 
So much said here…..beautifully. Hugs!
O, Bushka, only the poet can hear the conversation between heartbeats, silence that speaks when nothing else can.
Indeed……Hugs! ❤
Ah, Bobbie, nothing to be said…, only felt ………………………………..xo
are we not just a gathering of words, of truth we’ve yet to confide……….. xo
words waiting, seek the ink and the page …
ten thousand words, and but a sigh……..
A very fine one. Good tidings to you.
Thank you, my precious Steven. xo
Reblogged this on The Reluctant Poet.