-
A soft wind fans the cedars' scent
across your plots of earth;
-
-
- . - . - . - . - . -
. - . - . - . - . - .
-
How is it I feel the slight wind even now,
almost breathing on my thoughts, and
-
-
Water wimples yellow setting light;
fir trees play a subtle evening wind;
-
- . - . - . - . - . -
. - . - . - . - . - .
-
Nostalgia is but a hollow wind,
and I a new-grown wood.
-
-
- . - . - . - . - . -
. - . - . - . - . - .
-
- . - . - . - . - . -
. - . - . - . - . - .
-
in the fallows of your mind
tilled beneath your dreams
-
I guess I've gotten tired of sickles knives and daggers,
chucked about with nearly careless ease,
-
-
from the silhouettes of oaks madrones and pines
the call of an owl thins out into the dark
-
you never took that one slow breath
hands trembling eyes twitching
-
every fiber bound to life
linking bone to skin be still
-
barrows seal the homes where bones return to dust;
dolmens house the disembodied dead—
-
imagination paves her path of promise
where patience lightly walks with brownstone eyes
-
-
It was covered in shrubs, / weaves of poison oak,
and the old fallen branches / of deeply rooted tears.
-
-
A long strained moan struggles from the gloom
-
-
-
I'll not forget your whispers, nor the poison words you coated on the rusty spike of truth,
-
let's make a bed beneath our outstretched limbs shaded by the dreams we weave together
-
sepia leaves and branches shade the supple parchment of your years
-
-
Amid the ghostlike skeletons of oaks,
a lone song lifts from a channel brown with grass
-
-
-
-
- . - . - . - . - . -
. - . - . - . - . - .
by Zahhar
8 lines, 6 comments,
on Dec 30 7:44 AM 2006. In Tanka, Go
-
|