Wednesday, June 9, 2010


Trot two miles silhouetted.
Golden day's-end-shine:
Burnishment above a black hill.
Slender knives of grass,
Black too,
Brushing past.

Eyes brown
Deep like nothing ever seen.
(Soil is brown and deep...
Maybe the incarnate spirit of soil,
Of earth and home.)
Hairs that belong to that sky.
Breath warm like friendship.

Trust radiates off
And mingles with the light.
Love is here, yes,
But it's a different kind of love.

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