I will not speak of it
though sun speckle the ivy
with yellow light
and foxgloves sway
in the breeze.
I will be silent
through heat and stunning
slices of rain; through
the river's decline
to its grey-pebbled bed.
Though the air
turn orange and thick
with fire, I will say
nothing. I drift like a ghost
through my own life.
--
~ SB =^..^=
http://www.sbpoet.com
http://sb.chatango.com/
http://www.flickr.com/photos/sbmontana/
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