Speaking Eryngos

The sea burning,  the heads of blued Thistles nodding now,   You are drift   Ing across the dry grassy   Field of perception.    Above me, Humming with the   Softness of hands in mud,  Words wing and land,  Clutching the branch of hope That this is finally a sign.   The ache between the dunes, tilted  Towards


I yield, To the morning haze that engulfs my spirits;   I yield.   For Mother Nature calls, My body withdraws; I am within and without.   Serenity.   I know not why My slumbers break with the sunrise. My inner and outer worlds meddle and wed,   And I am one.   The birds

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