A poem simply sounds the bell, of that which words could never tell.


Walking the garden of my mind,
Every moment,
Might I find
As a kite to fly,
Each wakeful one -
On currents, rising,
Kissed by the sun,
Gifts of warm possibility,
Pulling up playfully
Higher than high,
Tugging and lifted
Beyond to the sky,
Where today's but a whisper
Down in the trees,
Of wishes unfolding
Blown on by a breeze,
Where dreams can begin,
And reason descends
From along the sharp ridge
Where the garden ends.

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