the sound of the green grass moving, many blades, a songle motion
sigh like wind running
over the green blue heaving ocean
still traveling
still fingered with desire
while i hear the sky
stroking the Earth with devotion.
......sigh.
winter is near with its cycle of death and rebirth and I am ready
and i haven't even walked a mile in my worn out shoes
when the breeze strikes the essence of my being, I can hear the voice of creation whisper longingly for me to voice my acknowledgement of its presence
I look down at the wet earth and mourn its condition, as I speak a silent prayer of empathy.
And again find myself listening . . .
with wet runner's glistening the night breath off the mild january moon,

Rustling green grass
Flowing in the summer wind
There I make my bed
-------
its nice to see the art of self expresion is not dead