9/8/05

Poetry of the senses

Muttering through doors, pruning leaves from trees, creating patterns on sand dunes and moving the waters of the sea into a waltz. The scent of water lifted from source to parched physique. Cool fingers caressing fevered brow, memories found within a long forgotten scent, the deja vu of moments from yesterday. Taste of rain: carried, imminent. Singing through the trees, clapping their hands. Who am I?

8 comments:

lis said...

wow...

I know the answer, but I'm not telling!

Booker said...

Someone very sick? :) heheehehee...

Laughter said...

Good thing I appreciate your sense of humor, strange Jones-thing.

Anonymous said...

That reminds me how I love the way rain smells. Whenever I smell It, it reminds me that God hasn't given up on us.

TripleNine said...

"Who has seen the 'Laughter', neither I nor you. But when we hear the trees start rustling we know she's passing through." :)

Nice words images. I wish the guys at work would take a lesson or two from you, they are rather unimaginative when it comes describing things.

Laughter said...

Nice work there...

I love photography, in both forms.
That in an album and that in word form on paper. Seeing as I have no camera... one must work with what one has. :-D

Anonymous said...

Ha! I know the answer. Though I heard it a little differently.

He who makes it, doesn't need it.
He who buys it doesn't use it.
He who uses it, doesn't know it.

Aaron said...

A COFFIN!!!!!!

(Of course, I figured it out all myself.)