Robins Wake

I sit here in this room of glass
And watch you fleet on winged feet
Ascend through fog to lightened mast.

We call.

And in the distance faint response.
Break the branch, then call again.
Upon these notes, you echo back.

We fall.

Improvisation on the tune
Dancing closely, calling still
To warm the buried bone below,

We crawl.

The bended knee is torn and scarred.
But distance is eliminated
And everything illuminated.

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About Emily

I may or may not have: A. Dirt B. Ink C. Paint D. Wool under my fingernails.

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