Archive
11/11/12
November Breeze
Cast adrift, this breeze-brisk Sunday morning, At as loosely tied ends as the brittle leaves When they let go of their twig-binds, With giddy-minded blindness, I fly into the wind before and behind me, Luxuriating in my sweetly conflicted freedom, Persuaded that every direction is mine for the picking And that whatever destination accepts my selection Will beckon me, with no questions gestured, Commend its generous tolerance to my flown soul . . . Fly, knowing I've left my senses in serendipity's eyes, Hoping to find my next existence, inside the brisk breeze.
11/11/12
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