Straining at the pane

Straining at the pane

 

Not one hour had passed

on this time shifting day

and you gave, again,

a gift outside.

 

Behold just in front of my breast

the very first butterfly straining

at the pane, flying nowhere

for the flowers of ecstacy

are as yet, with me, inside.

 

Wait, just a little and shift.

Your direction is clearer

than pressed glass,

even crystal.

 

Turn around  with our sun

to see all that garden,

works there,

arrayed flutes piping,

abundance my dearest winged one.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

w

Connecting to %s