What lies do fireflies tell
as they hover over the smooth green stream
algae thick and murky.
I marvel at the wind in the birch
and suddenly, the words rise like bread.
I can sense the ache within
the rhyme, the time and reason.
What lies do fireflies tell
when they pass weathered frayed
shuttered windows,
as clouds stretch overhead
rolling their moist shoulders
as you do with me.
Still
another lie
for that
solitary magic moment.
Posted by poetry/muse6165
at 12:11 PM EST
Updated: Saturday, 01/08/2005 9:17 PM EST
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Updated: Saturday, 01/08/2005 9:17 PM EST
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