This morning surrender
This morning surrender I flow
with the rolling of blistering suns
I carry with tall trees and the dying
of winds across the fleshy grass.
Pale bones of history and summers
where once wooden flutes grinned
out of groins with whispered laughter
slow talk to the descending sea.
Fierce is the fire that feeds
on the undying sainthood of salt
and bare cloth with arms
weather mill still at high noon.
Sureties are crusty words on waves
rolling sand to the baked shore
with the halo of a cat’s smile
folded under water tussled dreams.
Poetry by Bob
Read 698 times
Written on 2006-07-24 at 11:58
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