Only earth angels hear the tender rippling
In the pounding rain we
bare our quills to the world,
reappear from our veiled cage.
Bruises of the soul are slow to heal
but we are indifferent to pain.
Gardenias fill the room with mortality,
petals of sweet secrets nurtured by a rhapsody of recollection.
Surrendering dreams makes us still,
a vast wasteland where all poetic breath
dies with us.
We long for the clean scent of Spring,
the rust smell of earth infused in deep roots,
to hear again the swaying chimes on the limbs
of a slender Linden,
synchronized for the twilight hours.