Here my voice stumbles.
Through the pale arms of trees
the wind pours itself.
Against the window the moon skirls
its silver solitude.
The grass is wet with dreams.
Night unfurls in dark carnations.
A white moth falls from the Southern Cross.
Sometimes a wing. Far far water stars.
Oh, the hoarse cry of a lighthouse.
Alone.
The dark is never silent; even my eyes are noisy.
Somewhere a black sea echoes and re-echoes.
The bay is big.
Here my voice stumbles.
Here my voice stumbles and the horizon
hides you in vain.
I love you still among these cold things.
Sometimes my words leave me like birds of passage
winging towards endless summers.
I see them flying off in flocks of ink.
The piers sadden when dusk moors here.
My tongue grows quiet, moist to no purpose.
My longing wrestles with the starry distances,
but time and sand stifles my mouth.
The moon cries at every window.
The grass is full of night and water.
And as I love you, my voice stumbles
over a single branch and a paled dream.


You knew I'd "go there", my Sister...couldn't help it, Nic...You & Neruda??? Love you, Woman...

















My maximum on one poem is 5. lol. 










!

. Best wishes ~ 















Guess who??? hehehe
I knew you'd love her work, Muddy...you both paint with words...Nic, Muddy also paints pictures & has 'em posted...

105 old applause
