Saturday, April 18, 2015


From this niche, my eyes follow
the swarming of the white bees,
an errant swirl of snowflakes
chased by a singing wind.

All day long, words are gathering.
They flee away from my fingers
and tangle in the willow branches,
before fluttering across the globe.

I wait for news, until, after dark,
Areté, wearing her silvery cloak,
holds a lamp to veiled inscriptions
still eluding my interpretation.

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