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May 26, 2013

The breath of earth comes clouding out,
between the pine trees rising.
The sky is grey, the road ahead,
and none of us surmising:
the lungs of earth beneath our wheels—
soft breathing, pumping, coursing.
Up from the em’rald hills it comes,
its formless shapes enforcing.
“Come ‘scape in me,” it seems to say,
“my forest paths are calling.”
“My breath is cold, my branches rough—
from sleep I’ll keep you falling.”
But fog will rise behind our eyes,
as onwards we are driving;
the pines and hills are left behind,
for quickly we are living.

One Comment leave one →
  1. Sarina permalink
    May 26, 2013 11:08 pm

    So you found an ending 🙂 The whole piece is quite profound.

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