August 31, 2012

poem 299 of a poem a day for 2012

the cut tongue angles of my angels of Autumn calling

and the old stones
and copper and iron
are calling back the Sun
in the bled colors
of a matching sky
and ground

here she says
take my hand
and whisper where
the abyss edges in
and no wings
are needed to fly
when inside this moment
that can be ridden
to where ever
we might want to go

the telemetry
and geometry
of your surrendering
says lean back
into the songs
as if you always
belonged here
with me


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