(yes, I am rusty. so be it.) poem for January 1 I am always singing
death songs, a bird with down
the texture of sunset. You are the ancient juniper.
I pretend you can hear the rustle
of my wings, but your arms are stiff. I feel the sun's heat on my back,
touch your wrinkled skin. I am always walking
to the grave, as are you.
Time is not interested in us.
What a lovely proverb, especially for one with bird on birth certificate, birds in house, birds on the brain.
Reply for Jan 1 Death singing 'the neck is always our future, a texture of sun'
a bird fell. Pretend you can hear our voices, a wing, sand,
old cypress.
You, stiff but your elbow. More about us behind, we feel the heat of the sun,
and touch your wrinkles and skin from the skin. The walk always grave
we arrived when they do
not feel interested in the factors.
You.
Thank you. This is truly awesome. Here, a little stanza in response to your beautiful work: When I woke, the sun
still below the Sandia peaks
winked,
knowing her rays captured
All.