'The soil has curves,' it started.
The soil has curves: hourglasses
repeating over and over, over great distances.
She picked a leaf, like a raisin;
she nibbled at it with her hand, left it
to scatter, like nonsense, in the wind.
The trip was short-lived, easy---
tiny leaf-mash on her shoe.
She thought about the color of sea-foam,
like handkerchiefs tossed about, waving.
And the color of avocados in the tree,
every time she took one down for supper.
You were there, dressed
in sunset, a name and a shirt....
breathtaking, taking
her breath. Erratic breath,
like galloping horses, and drums.
Echo) echo))echo)))
By chikalatina
© 2008 chikalatina
(All rights reserved)
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