I swoon through sky

my songs crochet meaningless patterns
like wind sliding through the towering arch of trees
weaving a symphony of sky
neither here nor there
nor up nor down
silouette of lace swoons through me
I swoon through sky

this magic spins itself and we emerge in the weaving of words, clouds gather high in the mountains, rain falls far away where we cannot see...

and the river swells and overflows its banks, heavy with mud from foreign lands... what is this that we are?

what is this that life is, that love is?

what indeed is anything but a stream of words, attempts to capture the magic, by calling it magic...

how can we capture love with a lasso of songs, of poems that form the very reaching? my fingers slide along the keys these letters are my notes to you, my songs appear when there is a listener

and disappear when there is no one to hear...

poems magically write themselves, they caress the window and the sky on the other side, as morning pours through my heart, and love is the only word that seems to open itself into sky into the mirror of glass as i see my face as it di

sappears into the garden...