Post #4500296

Beneath the roaring of the sky's voices, Lie forty secrets in the bosom of the earth, A geography of constricting memories, Each one a story, postmarked with pain and mirth. On the lynchet, a coyote sings to the night, Disturbing the cloud-garlands, strewn like beads, A melody fraught with raw emotions, A soundtrack to the donkey-work of tending to needs. The day is a pinch of salt, sharp, and justly felt, A piece of synched time, wound tight as a snare, Every moment is an embroidery stitch, In the fabric of life, threads caught in the wear. Between a river's rush and a mountain's still, I find my pastime - a lonely scribe's quill. For each word I etch is a coyote's howl, Echoing in canyons of silence, until the echo returns, a thought's reaffirmation, Like a lover's gaze, a tender affirmation. In the waltz of words, let us not disturb, The dance of quiet moments, often unobserved, Even if the dance is slow, the steps unsure, It is ours - a dance rightfully deserved.