by Eric Rosenbloom
copyright 2011
A wisp of a thing, a thought on the air
That often it seems she isn’t there
A touch of moisture, a stir in the breeze
You see her passing in the leaves of trees The birds gather seeds
And people their deeds She rises and darkens in the mountain’s arms
Colors with passion and furious alarms
The dizzying heights now fill her with dread
Now longing that knows no rest, no bed The birds gather seeds
And people their deeds His grip is tight, she cannot fly
From fate and this his cruel eye
To swoon upon his hardened crags
And croon his hills and downy legs The birds gather seeds
And people their deeds He crouches beneath her, dark in her dark
To know the journey he can’t embark
In his craggy rocks and clinging firs
That are in her, washed by all that’s hers The birds gather seeds
And people their deeds All that she has and strained to hold
Bursts forth — she is of a sudden old
Her color fades as her life runs down
The rocks and trees that ring his crown The birds gather seeds
And people their deeds The waters gather and a river born
Of a clash divine, of a spirit torn
And the sun now shines and the valley sings
And the river means so many things The birds gather seeds
And people their deeds The ocean calls his wandering daughter
To lose herself in his circling water
While the mountain looms with a fiery glare
And calls forth another maid who was fair The birds gather seeds
And people their deeds
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