Day-old Delaware Chickens
9 years ago
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?
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
8 comments:
wow...
I know the answer, but I'm not telling!
Someone very sick? :) heheehehee...
Good thing I appreciate your sense of humor, strange Jones-thing.
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.
"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.
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
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.
A COFFIN!!!!!!
(Of course, I figured it out all myself.)
Post a Comment