~the color of a metaphor
wind is half-lost in a meadow
where bloodroot opens
after the night-flowering
it happens too slowly to notice
this perfect moment
carved into dawn
of branch & wing
old notes & rainwater
how the dew settles
to needles of pine
like drugs for an addict
like unsaid words
of poems I wish I had written
or the language
of small birds
a thousand miles
from now
lah 4. 2. 17 ©
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