Saturday, May 16, 2009


the wind. it hit me like the voice of a familiar friend,
sending me back
to joys 
long lost 
past the memory of chili.

this place is music in the form
of spice
infiltrating the air
almost indistinguishable from dust
simmering in the sunlight
songs and thuds from taut
laughter in the morning
bare feet 

this place is music in the form
of prayer
praising the dawn
almost indistinguishable from birdsong
calling to life the wake
of children
sailing past fragrances
sweetly drifting
yellow boughs

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