moving to cicada sounds
While moving to cicada sounds, with the rhythms of maracas, and the bubbled resonance of rivers,
she noted to herself, how could there be anything BUT unity in the world?
it's fall, but feels more like august
the day is a mystery of stillness the quiet cuts through the thick air delivering dampness to those who walk, or sit amidst this quiet day one bird sings in the lowest branch of the maple tree my neighbor planted last spring--its growth evidenced by its leaves tinged with a deep blush waving worlds through second story window as the sky slowly becomes more grey a terrorist attack happens each time we turn our backs- when we face our troubles head on- as train cars sit in a depot after hours there becomes less laundry to do as we witness the building up of stress and the releasing, as leaves shall tumble through a clearing-designed in earth tones- chanting all living things as one entity-tethered in god and goddess tapestry how the wind grows unaware of its ability to cool the poet stationed by the brook casting no shadows in a sun deprived sky words/photo~kate lamberg (c) '15
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