Sunday, May 12, 2013

Housing VI

I hear the voice of my mother.
She cries loudly from the temple mount
Of the contentment of stolen water.

Without looking up, I listen, but through my tears
I have no words, no rebuke, no comfort,
Only wisdom, always dressed in black, sits with me.

Among the mountains I hear the call
Of a silent spring, hidden and blue
Under fir and spruce, awaiting the summer
Toll of its feast and unveiling.

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