this summer of crushed bones.
marvelling at the reluctance
of dry eyes to see
the shades in-between the edges.

so many shades,
very few of which are grey.

and such a strong nostalgia.
if that is the word.
for woods in autumn.
of laced windows dissolved
in clear white winter light.

mostly of the kind of harmony
found in the balance of contradictions.

beneath a rose moon on midsummer nights.
bowing unto the singing hills.
I am plural. a perfect nest of soft.
revealing one petal at a time.
I plant seedlings in the crevices
and wonder.
who is wiser, the one with feet of moss,
or he with "odyssey" written on his soles...