i am rewritten by songbirds in the morning,
singing glorias to the sun in c minor

by soft spiderwebs in high places,
touched with dew that glistens tender
on gossamer threads spun new and whole

by sleepy saplings and ancient oaks,
waking to the sky with open arms
that sway and move and praise,
that bend but do not break.

how often it is we forget to look up.

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the horizon is strung together from ships lit like lanterns
swaying to the same night-rhythm as the stars
backandforth, backandforth
a lullaby, a cradle.

there are little faces peeping out from behind the windowpanes
sweaty palms on smudged glass,
sneaking out long after bedtime, whispering sea shanties like prayers;
they were born with “wanderlust” written in their hearts.

they want the waves beneath their feet
or the sky clutched in their palms;
they want the world to open up for them,
to split the horizon seam from seam…

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i do not see the color of her eyes.
i see only the sentimental things:
tilt of a head
brush of a nose
wigglewigglewiggle that shivers up the spine, from tailtip to heart.

i know them by the way they sparkle with dog-secrets,
lit from inside by some luminous spirit
that dances and spins and defies silence.

i know them tired and centuries-old,
soft and sleepy and stubborn,
aching with the weight of hours on hours of living
without dwelling too long on life…

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