Listen to the Walls Where Stories Talk Sunlight whispers in eaves, hugged by leaves. Wrapped in green. Skylarks whistle to their Juliets. Who walk with eyes turned high, upon the blue sky. In this place, stars echo and stay in cotton shapes on blue paint. They swirl down the wave of tree top hands. Sunlight …
Wrapped in Green
Silence, a thick Afghan blanket, settles
heavy at first. Scratchy too. Left idle
for some time.
On tip toes it warms spaces
between bent knee and elbow.
I curl into it. Settling.
Soon, it sits. Natural as beat
of melting icicles to tunes of chimes.
Each morning I release arms
to sky. A form, of one world,
within all others.
Sometimes I spy
clouds turn. An atmospheric mobile
around, around,
mountains, trees and me. Frozen still.
A thick Afghan blanket settles.
A breathe. Air rushes down arms,
hands, fingers to pockets.
The return rolls over,
new, crescent, quarter, gibbous
as if I walked the world with ear plugs.
This lunar cycle blazons return
to when clock hands sit
always on rush hour.
Fingers in pockets. Eyes close. Settling.
Clouds continue to turn.