The source of my insatiability
said in the voice of a high creek
making its way without banks
through whatever rocks and rivulets
her joyful and light gravity
could caress and pass in song.
She sang what the hills say
all the way from peak to quay
whistling in cracks and waving
at me in every city without
comment or criticism only
hello again hello repeatedly.
Hot no longer August looks
ahead to bent and picked passions
happy to maintain like me
what it took so long to grow
more thirsty than hungry the start of
seasons of sitting with knitted brow.
Hands want work tongue sick of it
the cliffs above the sea are conflicted
we promenade on unsure edges
where so many unknown dead have
ended up in the tide resting
not hating but incapable of love.
My wife and I hand in hand
ponder the etymology of the years
from the delight of a lit candle to
the miracle of popcorn fulfilling
promises made in the lowlands and
highlands of Sweden and Bavaria.
What is barely will become fully
gone will become sun returning
capturing it in our silly syntax
requires dancing across the continents
and back again back repeatedly
each expression parenting a wave.
mrsorenson's verses 