Cycle (draft)
It's funny how things come full circle.
How one day you hear yourself echoing the words of your father,
or gesturing as your mother's slender fingers once did.
Green eyes,
turn to blue eyes,
turn to brown and to soft words;
some tattered memories take wing
to shelter away from the winter.
Sometimes it seems like there are no frontiers,
no open spaces left under strange skies;
all the tangled geists rolling like tumbleweeds.
It's funny how you can learn to be satisfied,
to still a rumbling soul and
quell impatient desire.
Hunger is often sated by time,
and raw nerves get buried under vital coils in the eldest of trees.
How one day you hear yourself echoing the words of your father,
or gesturing as your mother's slender fingers once did.
Green eyes,
turn to blue eyes,
turn to brown and to soft words;
some tattered memories take wing
to shelter away from the winter.
Sometimes it seems like there are no frontiers,
no open spaces left under strange skies;
all the tangled geists rolling like tumbleweeds.
It's funny how you can learn to be satisfied,
to still a rumbling soul and
quell impatient desire.
Hunger is often sated by time,
and raw nerves get buried under vital coils in the eldest of trees.