Through my window have seemed to have
found their ways again.
Like trails of strings of an instrument of six,
a morning unbeknown to me sings for the
flowers that it births.
Counting colors on white walls will do no good
as menageries beyond melancholy branch beyond
old snows and dead leaves.
Maps tell of shores in mind while
bare legs tell of stories of familiar trails.
In voices and night time whispers
the sun again becomes familiar with skin
while the soil begins to take shape underneath the feet.
Beds have become to warm to lay in.
Nevertheless, the earth is perfect to stand upon.
Delivered from wishes;
the warm air is now a gift for choking thought.