As I listen to an insistent bird
on the other side of history
through a window on the second
that's open despite the rain,
and there is emptiness
expressed by a white cup
next to my elbow, and thirst
gathering clouds in my belly,
I wonder if some of the silent
pauses that persist are true.
Every drop has dimension;
a beginning of an end.
One voice is gone fluid with desire
and mixes with the tumult
of wild cries changing color
to match the scheme of the sky,
draws breath in between
shades of living and eternal,
and flies out to another
wanting the wanderer to find
the branch that breaks through
with it's fall into Spring.
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