(no subject)
We used to listen
To my irises at night. Life has its sounds.
A whisper, a paper fan, tossed up upon a shore.
Slowly, always slowly,
Trembling in water's echo. It stretches
As it dries in the sun.
The whisper of a breath.
Footprints and stamps on glass.
The wind.
And then, silence.
This spring, the irises
Will bloom. Some things never change.
To my irises at night. Life has its sounds.
A whisper, a paper fan, tossed up upon a shore.
Slowly, always slowly,
Trembling in water's echo. It stretches
As it dries in the sun.
The whisper of a breath.
Footprints and stamps on glass.
The wind.
And then, silence.
This spring, the irises
Will bloom. Some things never change.