may be i’ve learned
languages of leaves
in the grief that became me.

may be i speak
in breaths of stars
chanting down a tower
to the empty mooring,
pale streams of glow
welling for the home of life,
a soft schism
in what remains of a day.

in what touches
the infinite to each shore
where mounted on a pier
sanity observes the wind,
in limbo of amnesia
cut by bells and stones
leading to
parlors gleaming dark grey
and lanterns robed in sky.

in what touches
flame and garden rain.
rain and garden flame.
carving words of Negev
on moongate handles-
in the eyes
of a beautiful iris,
a remedy.
in the eyes
of a nightingale
a cherished grail
held to essence
of the amber woods.

but even
in the forest
i don’t sense
the touch of a realm
where i could trace
a joy of little angel wings
to live with quiet knowing
through earth days.

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