Sunday, March 21, 2010

Burnt Cinnamon

This silent soliloquy I share with the vivid one.
All ears taking it in, but no eyes to judge.

You hear me shuffling in the dark, you offer up your light.
You make the maples lift me up, we dance in secondary colours.
You smell my sweet spicy mix, but can’t remember what you used to have.
You follow my trail of smoke, and wonder what keeps me burning.

I saw what kept you tall when it was so easy to fall.
I bruise and cry for its strength.

Plus another day without, and I greet it warmly.
The woods, your autumn kiss reaching.
Golden questions, stretching and reasoning.
I smile and embrace this spinning place.

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