I’ve sat underneath a tree
whose face had weathered
more storms than waves,
whose reaching limbs
spoke only in whispers
and kept the silence at bay.

I’ve spoken with flower petals
more travelled than time,
more vivid than a mirror
gazing anxiously at dawn
breaking through the stillness
so powerfully nonchalant.

I’ve met a man whose skin
sank deeper than the sea,
his face a weathered blizzard
no less determined but still
untouched by anger’s kiss or
the hot hand of impatience.

I’ve seen young birds flitting
from tree limb to tree limb
on growing melodies
as storied as the leaves
echoing their song away
on rolling hills massaging
a blue sky into the horizon.

With time perhaps I could
paint these pictures in riverbeds
or on mountainsides, there
for you to witness the ripples
the images take on the water,
the shadows they cast into
the draws and into the ridges,
but perhaps you’ll only see
a peak blank in all its honor
and a tumbling river not unlike
any other you’ve yet to see.




Filed under Words

2 responses to “Vistas

  1. gerald parnell


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