Sunday, February 22, 2015

Listening to Chopin

There is no season ready
for this dance of the air
fresh as can be, bearing
silence in sweeping arms.

A calm storm nothing left
unmoved, echoes of night
and day housed within
the walls of your ears.

A stroll down a garden
singing, no flower needed,
a guiding sun maybe, a path
like rainbow crosses the sky.

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