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absence abuse
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animal anniversary
anti bullying anxiety
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class clothes
color community
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cousin cowboy
crazy creation
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hero high school
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house how i feel
howl humanity
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hurt husband
hyperbole i love you
i miss you identity
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inspiration inspirational
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Long Wind Poems | Long Wind Poetry

Long Wind Poems. Below are the most popular long Wind by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Wind poems by poem length and keyword.

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Long Poems
Long poem by Robert Ronnow | Details |

The Canopy and Economy

Sun and traffic - day economy.
Six a.m. drive to plywood mill. Too tired
to be angry. Each day a step
toward death. What is being accomplished? The
small satisfactions
within each day. Book consciously read.
And frustrations. Package dropped, honey jar broke.

One of 175 soil types. With the fifty
tree species
comprising the canopy under which Eric and Lisa clean their baby's face.

Sun in winter, old apples.

Inside the school
a brilliant but rebellious history teacher
is suspended by the school board.
200 students
wearing armbands and painted teardrops
protest. Another 400
are silent.

Within each structure
human dramas and routines.
Nancy will not love
any man who cannot do as many push-ups as she.

Trees grow,
porcupine scat in snow.

No job,
no niche,
no existence.
How you earn money is who you are. You are
what you do to get food to eat
and shelter from the winter, summer heat.

Each morning I seek God
by holding still
waiting for the smoke to be black or white
coins heads or tails
wind dark or bright.

Flock of evening grosbeaks
nipping maple buds:
the sign I need.

                    *                          *                          *

Less need =
more wealth.
2/23/89. So much equipment just to sleep.
More than a bare floor.
Plumbing vs.
wash at stream, find a log in woods.
Implements of human existence
unlike the deer or bear who
nip buds, forage berries.
I cannot eat the gum out of balsam fir
or bark from a popple.

I am not Wendell Berry
with a wife, a farm, philosophy.
I like the accuracy
of counting pear thrips in maple buds.
8/bud = complete defoliation.
This insect has four wings fringed with hairs
and is minute, 2.5 millimeters.
Two species within the genus:
one with tubular abdominal segment,
the other with conical abdominal segment.
Sugar maple their preferred food.

All I need
are names.
Names and habitats.
Elements, products, decay fungi, egg masses.
Marriage, copulation, regeneration, education.
Machinery, accounting, hand tools, laboratory.
I need your names
and histories.
Sexual histories, books read, imaginings, unrequited loves, significant
      landscapes, broken bones, periods of boredom, favorite shows.

                    *                          *                          *

Immediately means
without mediation, intermediate moments
time in the middle.

Time in the middle
time in the middle.
I'm bummed I never saw a dinosaur, an ice age, a cave man, even missed
      the last world war.
Thanks to paleontology, geology, archaeology, history
mind equipped to take
time out of the middle.
It's in our DNA!

Why should she love me, her tenant?
Because I pay the rent on time.

                    *                          *                          *

Excellent. The white sun rose
and lit the frost.
Early February, late March, or in between.
Birds begin
discussing family. Sap starts to flow.
Where the borer spirals in, it comes out wet.
Birch or maple.

I watched from the window. Beautiful
but no desire to go out and touch
swelling buds of elderberry.
Is this shrub crazy? It knows what it knows
with elderberry knowledge.

Come Spring, so much to identify and name.
Insects, diseases and new flowers.
Lepidoptera, root rot, the pinks.
I think I might get married too
and watch the moons pass through the mists.

                    *                          *                          *

March rain.

Some snow remains
roads dangerous
but truck deliveries must be made.
                                                The light
pushing back the dark.
Bark
getting softer, slippery
at the cambium. Sap
simmering. Summer
and spring are here and there
although only winter birds are in the air.
Some buds
break swell
want
to turn inside out
but wait
knowing better.

I too will not break or run
early
hold hope bound by ropes of discipline, experience
time the magic moments to come
take the last sleet and pain
slap in the face
glad for predictable seasons.
                                        We anticipate however
drought, maple defoliation, increased gypsy moth infestations
which some attribute to our existence.
That may be true.
Or it may be that the universe
has reversed its decision on us
and there's nothing we can do.
But we will do
what we can
and some things we shouldn't
because that is human.

Continuing
into the space inside me
unconnected to the light switch, plumbing
fairly independent of materials beyond
food and sound.
Where I pray
like an oak
that the light will enter me
unbroken, forever
and I will live the meanings in the wind.
                                                       Basic
necessities, wood
wine
and friends. And
the names
of everything
by which we know our way.






Long poem by Diane Lefebvre | Details |

Transmigration Of The Wind

The strong gust of wind was cut off from its source; a frigid early spring blast that swept across a lofty mountain range, high above British Columbia.

It then encircled one of the lesser peaks and swooped down upon the slippery ice pack below, reaching out with cold, airy tentacles to caress the frozen surface, as it skimmed ever downward, dipping its fingers into each crevasse, only to dissipate into nothingness when swallowed by the vast emptiness of the frigid ice chasms below.

The main body of wind rushed on, over the thick, craggy glacier that had recently become an impenetrable shroud for several unfortunate ice climbers, who for one fateful moment challenged the supremacy of the mountain.

The wind now reached magnificent snow fields. Untouched by the imprint of man;  it swirled the fresh offering of snow into powder so fine and glimmering, that the human eye left unprotected, would most certainly be blinded by its glare.

The wind was less bitter now. The warmth of the sun at the lower altitude tempered its bite as it continued downward past a small group of skiers, lending sting and color to their cheeks. It exhilarated them and the memory would help bring them back to the mountain again and again, much as the drug addict must return to that which obsesses him.
 
The wind had now reached the tree line and was met by green, trenchant sentries waiting in dwindling cradles of snowy whiteness.  At first they would bend and sway in deference to the wind, as it attempted to bully its way past. Then the trees became the master, slowing and tempering that which so boldly challenged their strength and stamina.  

This left the wind transformed once again, now becoming an energetic breeze, reaching out to the upper meadows of the mountain: adolescent fields now alive with the arrival of a warming season and the promise of springtime’s grace.  

The breeze was refreshing in the late morning sun. Its welcoming touch stirred everything in sight: rippling through the young grass, now caressing the immature leaves on awakening trees that harbored mating song birds and caustic squirrels.  

The high meadow spring flowers swayed beneath its gentle touch and a hare frolicked this way and that in the beautiful moment called ‘spring’.

The breeze then happened upon a flowing stream. Icy cold and gurgling, the brook wended its way down the mountain side, offering a ride to the transient traveler and carrying it along on its surface, just above the ripples and eddies that danced over boulders and foaming white water.

It tumbled along with the stream, as other small rivulets joined in and soon was hitching a ride with a river that had grown more powerful: over falls and through canyons, now widening out as the steep incline of the mountain slowly vanished.  

The river grew fat and sluggish in its mighty girth and the wind, with very little propulsion, had no choice but to lessen once more and become a mere whisper of what it once had been.

The scene was no longer recognizable to the errant puff of air.  Everywhere was the beginnings of the trappings of man and fearful in its vulnerability, it chose to remain with the river: skimming along under steel bridges, past little towns and eventually a small city. 

It dare not leave the river, for it feared dissipation and the river must wend its way to the sea if the little breeze was to survive.

And just when it seemed that all hope might be gone for the tiny little waft, the languid river gulped in its first salty taste of the ocean and the childlike wisp of air was immediately adopted by the offshore breeze, caressing it gently in its more powerful grasp: nursing it back to health, giving it the strength to survive. 

Then, into a harbor that was generously sprinkled with small vessels: some with trim masts that invited the puff of air to now come and frolic, if only for a moment or two. 

The regenerated breeze felt stronger now, as it playfully sparred with white sails, while tumbling this way and that, tickling and teasing all that it touched. 

It had now reached the ocean, where it would once again be renewed: drawn upward far above the clouds and absorbed into the powerful upper level winds, only to begin another long and treacherous journey, fraught with excitement, as well as adventure.

And in the end, there was and still is the vast and powerful sea, from whence all life once emanated and in its own and very special way, so too . .  even the wind.



© 2015 Diane Lefebvre


Long poem by Robert Ronnow | Details |

The Invention of Zero

Zero.
By which nothing is divided.
No zero
no negative
no opposite
no hope
no Adam, no apple, no marriage, no morning.
No mirror
no knowledge
no God, no soul, no ear lobe, no Iliad, no Odyssey.
No universe
no black hole
no zodiac
no hero
no mission, no omission, no fission, no fusion.
No beanstalk
no tractor
no yellow
no 7:30, no wind, no window, no owl, no one.

In 773, at Al-Mansur's behest, translations were made of the Siddhantas, Indian astronomical treatises dating as far back as 425 B.C.; these versions may have been the vehicles through which the "Arabic" numerals and the zero were brought from India into China and then to the Islamic countries. In 813 the Persian mathematician Khwarizmi used the Hindu numerals in his astronomical tables; about 825 he issued a treatise known in its Latin form as Algoritmi de numero Indorum, Khwarizmi on Numerals of the Indians. After him, in 976, Muhammed ibn Ahmad in his "Keys to the Sciences," remarked that if in a calculation no number appears in the place of tens, a little circle should be used "to keep the rows." This circle the Arabs called sifr. That was the earliest mention of the name sifr that eventually became zero. Italian zefiro already meant "west wind" from Latin and Greek zephyrus. This may have influenced the spelling when transcribing Arabic sifr. The Italian mathematician Fibonacci (c. 1170-1250), who grew up in North Africa and is credited with introducing the decimal system in Europe, used the term zephyrum. This became zefiro in Italian, which was contracted to zero in Venetian.   - Wikipedia

After my father's appointment by his homeland as a state official in the customs house of Bugia for the Pisan merchants who thronged to it, he took charge; and in view of its future usefulness and convenience, had me in my boyhood come to him and there wanted me to devote myself to and be instructed in the study of calculation for some days. There, following my introduction, as a consequence of marvelous instruction in the art, to the nine digits of the Hindus, the knowledge of the art very much appealed to me before all others, and for it I realized that all its aspects were studied in Egypt, Syria, Greece, Sicily, and Provence, with their varying methods; and at these places thereafter, while on business, I pursued my study in depth and learned the give-and-take of disputation. But all this even, and the algorism, as well as the art of Pythagoras, I considered as almost a mistake in respect to the method of the Hindus (Modus Indorum). Therefore, embracing more stringently that method of the Hindus, and taking stricter pains in its study, while adding certain things from my own understanding and inserting also certain things from the niceties of Euclidxs geometric art, I have striven to compose this book in its entirety as understandably as I could, dividing it into fifteen chapters. Almost everything which I have introduced I have displayed with exact proof, in order that those further seeking this knowledge, with it pre-eminent method, might be instructed, and further, in order that the Latin people might not be discovered to be without it, as they have been up to now. If I have perchance omitted anything more or less proper or necessary, I beg indulgence, since there is no one who is blameless and utterly provident in all things. The nine Indian figures are: 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1. With these nine figures, and with the sign 0 . . . any number may be written.   - Fibonacci, Leonardo of Pisa


Long poem by Therese Bacha | Details |

Earth Fire Water Wind

                      A Journey With The Wind.

I had a dream that felt greater than reality, lost on earth
wearing a gown bare feet bleeding leaving behind traces 
for my sons to find me.

My hand was begging reaching out suddenly, a feeling 
I held the wind, yes the wind in the palm of my hand a friend, 
to join me through that journey toward the ocean, knowing it 
will soon fly away, who can hold the wind and make it belong, 
I did.

Wind Oh wind, meet my sons, whisper my name they are the 
ones who care, they will rescue me even blind folded, they will 
smell my bodies odor and sense where I am. 

Oh wind, you are the only one here on this earth I feel your presence, 
fly away now carry a tear place it on their cushion and deliver my 
message to them, I will wait even forever, bring them back to me.

My friend my wind, search for them, find them knock, on their window 
If they are sleeping they will wake up & run towards me follow my blood 
trail find their way to carry me softly & cure my scars wipe away my
tears & fear of drowning alone at the shore.

Suddenly the light faded darkness took over covering the brightness 
away I pledged, mother nature I am not yet ready, sun do not burn 
and light a fire, Oh sun where are you , don't leave me alone, I started humming my babies melody to be heard 
and come to my rescue.

Deprived to see them in the morn for years, deprived to look in their 
eyes, deprived to eat with them, drink with them, deprived to smell their 
perfume, destiny was against me due to the war in our country, for 
years they were always flying away around this earth, to settle.

I felt cold shivering, suddenly the warmth of my children's breath 
around gave me the strength I needed, Wind! my friend! you 
found them and carried them across the ocean,Oh, the look into 
each others eyes cannot be describe, for the first time I felt they 
were real we fixed for seconds but a whole book can be created 
through the emotions and communications that occurred during 
those precious moments, 
a language of its own.

The echoing of their voices was heard, what can we say mum except 
we love you for being there when we needed you,we love you because 
of who you are, we love you because you care, we love you for not sinking 
during our absence because we needed you on the shore, together listen
to nature`s beauty, birds twittering, fish whispering, 
waves dancing & splashing.

We love you because you find life in everything you touch, and if not, 
you blow life into everything, we love you, your breath has kept 
us alive, your breath is as strong as the wind that carried us to you. 
Come on mum, it was a long journey with the wind on this earth 
for all of us, lets go home, together. 


 Contest,Earth Fire Water Wind for Debbie Guzzi   (WIN Honorable Mention) Therese Bacha
26/4/2013                                                           



Long poem by curtis johnson | Details |

Dancing Wind

The Wind Can Dance
By Curtis Johnson Sr 

I know it’s easier to catch a breeze or two, once we have been around the bend
We should take the time to watch the leaves among the trees every now and then
We should take a moment to smell the roses, and observe the motion of the wind

God gave us the beauty of roses, the beast of hurricanes, and the sting of bees
As I was driving along a busy boulevard, I looked up and stared into the trees
I did not see an acorn, a blossom, or a butterfly, nor yet a bird eating seeds

I saw the leaves and the limbs on the trees swaying, and in the wind swinging
I am certain the birds and the bees saw it too, as they were humming and singing
That’s when it occurred to me, that it was the wind with whom they were dancing
Although I didn’t see the wind itself dancing, I tell you, the wind can dance

When the wind grabs a limb here, blows a flag there, or takes charge of a sail boat on a gusty lake; it’s dancing
When the wind catches a loaded plane high in the sky, forcing man made birds to shake; it’s dancing

Though you don’t see the wind, you ponder the motion of its dancing partners
And see the perils of its powers
There are countless movers and shakers, making mighty tunes with the wind
The waters of the rivers, the lakes, and the high seas, hand in hand, making rhythm with the wind
When a dark funnel cloud forms, and starts spinning and twisting with the wind, it’s dancing,
Sometimes it’s a wild dance, but when a beastly hurricane stirs violently across the sea, and goes blasting along the ocean shores,
Creating havoc with the wind, it’s dancing
When a gentle breeze, always pleasing, starts turning in the dust, making melodies with the wind, it’s dancing
When those ocean waters come slowly flowing, and waving ever so gently to the shores, they are slow dancing with the wind
When the high seas get wild and windy , the splashing strong waves get rough and tough, and high tides come raging and soaring and racing to the shores, it’s a wild dance, but they are dancing with the wind
Listen to the wings flapping and the humming of a bumble bee passing by
The wind doesn’t brag; nor does it claim to be the best dancer in the sky
But you might believe it so, if you watch the wings of an eagle flying high
You know that the wind kicks up dust, and sometimes it makes a fuss;
You may be busy, but taking a little time to observe the wind is a must
Believe me it’s true; trust me when i say, the wind can dance


Long poem by Wendy Meyer | Details |

IF ONLY I COULD CATCH THE SUN, ever so softly


I try to ignore the squirming Hyde within 
And, with effort still,
I raise myself for the last traces 
of sunshine and fun.
What was left of the day, I savor for me. 
As the withering leaves of silence
have perfected the petals of stillness,
A quietude.
Such absence of sound
Never a serenity to the mind.
Disturbing solitude haunts.
Loneliness seems vivid as reality speaks 
Even the poignant sadness never parts
Solitary confinement paints an art.

Like the spectator in a thousand theatre plays,
 I achingly wait for the final curtains to part.
Then, as always expected -  
Left were the 
    dancing curtains 
       together with the late sunset wind. 
Tiny golden flecks 
   imprinting on the soft white 
        laces and trims.
Catching shadow images 
    of the last rays of brilliance, 
         blending slowly in yellow embers,
              forming orange coals, 
                   turning into sunkissed glow 
                         of a sad goodbye. 
Then,
    ever so softly fading
           into dullness and cloudless cold. 


And as the night falls, 
its shadowy self dances 
against the moonlit music of silence.
I listen and search still 
   for what is left. 
No traces of the sun 
whose magnificence and radiance 
had touched the leaves of laughter 
during my daytime slumbering; children frolicking, 
    early had the mind sensing. 
And, gone astray were the seeds of kindness 
    the day had grown.
It seemed they were sown 
    by someone I wish I had known. 


If only I could frolic 
    where little lads had been early today - 
        in the meadows, 
           by the pond, 
              along the shores, 
                  around friendly trees and smiling flowers, 
                       with the meadowlarks and chirpy games, 
                               I’d give away anything.
Basking in the sun on such a lemony day, 
someone sulks to find it's an emotional burn. 


If only I could catch the loveliness of the sun, 
I'd give away anything. 
ANYTHING. 
Just for something this grand. 


The mind wills but the heart groans. 
A moment of joy and laughter, so fleeting.
Forgot me, gave away the troubles. 
Today could be A DAY,
If only, ever so softly,  I could catch the sun.



Long poem by Robert Ronnow | Details |

To Eat a Continent Is Not So Strange

            Waves could wash away certain blue memories but they're too blue. Today I've sat in two places, my heart full of you and how in the night under a half man in the moon too soon, too soon, did love die? Today I've sat in two watery places but the rhythms will never wash away the face and smell and voice of you. Thus, I stand in the sun, like that, the breeze gently tears my beard and life becomes death.

            No, no, not that. A boat being repaired in a boatyard. And think of it! people on the planet earth! And nothing, but nothing, not even tao, is permanent. Whereas for us my dear this is a disadvantage, since I wished to be permanently a member of your arms, for me the individual I do not disappear as long as there is change. Life is like all things that are forever changing but will always remain the same. Love is one of those things.

            From hitch-hiking, as the sun descends I proclaim this, the mystery more powerful than the handshake. Thus, even unto children I have kept my silence, and even unto you I will. The white birch bending over the river fell in. It carried downstream and in one tidal sweep became a great white fish. When the sea dried up this unlucky fish grew wings anyway and became the great bird. The heavens were too small and it shattered into bits like you and I.

            To say I love you until the house falls down. Beyond the row of houses lit by street lamps and into the night I go, with and without you, both. How is it the powerful night attends you like a magician his queen? The way the sun would climb into a bottle to please me.

2

            Under a full night of black night stars, shooting and shining, turning a world of sun worlds, everything universe and cool wind, mountains of dark sound and a stream's breath song, I think often, until dawn, of your strong love. All of these true things becoming mine as a shore. And we inside as a breath baby. Listen, life darling long, four horses grazed nearby my head last night, like good luck. Struck thus I write: your love is greater than the real celestial globe.

            Something thicker and velvet than deep sea foam for you swirl lover. Something true to the events of our lives, the clear mountainous horizon of vision. Over the vast green earth O population of human and animal lovers to chewing very cud, our bond is fulfilled as a mother. A tremendous earthquake couldn't exist without us.






Long poem by kj force | Details |

Wildflowers

Standing out in a field alone, a little white flower named Daisy longed for someone to share her world.
One day a blue flower named Bachelor Button entered her world they became friends.
 She knew by his name that he was not the propagating kind, but that didn’t stop their relationship she called him BB short for best bud.
The seasons of Spring & Summer they enjoyed the sun, laughed in the rain and held on fast in the Fall.
Winter came it was long and hard they were both covered in a blanket of snow, not knowing whether they would ever see each other again or even survive .The snow fell     then came the ice, this went on for months.

The Sun shone brightly the first day of spring. A few days later warmth of the sun melted the snow, Daisy popped up .
 I’ve been waiting days for you to come out, said BB, they both chanted hooray!
The snow was completely gone in a few days, the birds started building their nests , bugs were crawling around ,butterflies began to visit the two flowers. I wish there were more of us Daisy said, to BB.

They laughed as the sun and wind blew through their leaves.  Then it started the sun and rain took turns until one morning the air & field was filled with the smell of flowers.
 
Daisy and BB looked at each other and asked what kind of flowers are these ? they’re not white like daisies they’re not blue like bachelor buttons. They did not know the birds and bugs carried the seeds from the two of them and the caterpillars buried them under the soil.
The seeds from the new flowers were then carried by the winds many miles away, they landed in fertilized gardens and flourished, although they faced danger everyday. 
as they were called WEEDS ..
 The Gardener pulls weeds out of the garden so they don’t choke the flowers, which cost a lot of money and require lots of maintenance.

However there was a Gardener who saw her friends spending hours weeding their garden , that they didn’t have enough time to admire and enjoy the labors of their love
So she set out to give a home to all the weeds ,she provided a place where they could fit in and multiply, they required no maintenance, rain provides their water .

The best part of all is their beauty is in the eye of the beholder.
 Ask my granddaughter-- What are those flowers in the garden ?
  She will answer "WILDFLOWERS " their parents were Daisy and BB


Long poem by Rosemarie Rowley | Details |

from A RUBY GARLAND FOR GEORGE AND NORA - my parents -

Europe was frozen in a tide of hate
The genius Jew was being persecuted
Bound to the intransigence of fate
His violin played the tunes they executed
Now it was time to think as they electrocuted
The hopes of young people in the dawn of their history
Whose own stories would have so much mystery

Down in the baker’s the story ran around
Hitler was marching to a frenzied tune
He bruised the flowers underneath the ground
And told them works of genius had no boon
While the bridal pair planned their honeymoon
On country roads, a visit to the town
Where they would see wonders and a family found

The day of the wedding dawned so fair
It would seem creation began again
Every single person going there
Wore the best they could, the men
With dark serge suits, and a fountain pen
For Granddad to write to his daughter
Who lived across three thousand miles of water

The wedding Nora had lived for all her life
Now like fate, could be too late to cancel
Nothing would please her more than being a wife
No longer a woman her relatives liked to spancel
They went the evening before to the quiet chancel
Made their vows in private for each other
Far away,  war’s declaration on a brother.


His thoughts were far away this harvest morning
The corncrake singing in the flowery ditch
Struck into his heart like a heavy warning
That life was choked with love, so rich
A fantasy dove-tailing in augured pitch
Be faithful to me, the bird sang, my husband
I never want to wear another’s riband

She wore the oyster dress her sister gave her
It was soft and crumpled like a clotted cream
Her veil was raised when he kissed her
And she thought she was fainting from the dream
What could matter now, but what could seem
His handsome face, his hair so fine and black
There wasn’t one feature where he lacked

Her face was lovely as a golden flower
Her dress, a simple thing with fine kick-pleat
It lay like wisps of cloud upon her tower
Where beauty, youth and kindness all could meet
Such tiny pearls slid on her throat so neat
Their hour of tortured chastity was over
Profusion, perfection, they were like gods in clover.

(c) Rosemarie Rowley from "In Memory of Her", 2004 Dublin





Long poem by Robert Ronnow | Details |

Night

Whereas last night the full moon made the night resemble a cold day
Today clouds give the night its old shrouded, crowding demeanor.
Ghosts stalk the forest gleaming (at me) from just beyond the circle of
      light thrown by the fire.
You, old night, I wish to make my peace with.
Eventually I know even I (I think, I'm told) must enter naked, a cold
      north wind in winter or a gentle September breeze instructing my sole
      spirit . . . .

There exist powers overwhelming for the human body and mind.
The aborigine's untold night of meditation on the mountain, coming away
      with his life-long totem and power.
The mountains tonight are alive with benevolence that could (for one
      lacking humility and respect or the hunter's perspicacity) flame up
      into insane malevolence.
You, old complete night, I wish to make my peace with
Being utterly a creature of the water and the light.

Night on the mountain, the human animal alone, without cohorts, speech
      and music inane without other ears to listen
Yet blasting, blasting against the night
Even after fire dies, its skin still the halo beacon to nothing in nothing,
Mind pouring on the electricity, outward to friends back in the cities
Receiving in return only strange sounds.

The ear must differentiate and protect.
Just as fluids within keep the body balanced so must the ear when the
      eyes are blinded by night
Balance the mind. Eyes, heroes of the day, enjoying orgiastically
      autumnal delights
Are now slaves to every primeval passion of the mind.
But the ears: it is a sound they have heard before and can identify.

Night, old strange night (were we once acquainted?), I wish to be at
      peace with you by becoming knowledgeable.
Fear like fire clings to its fuel.
I wish to dampen passionate fears by attuning the five senses to all that is
      normal dark and day.
To know the habits and cycles of everything I live beside
And my inner spirit become a silent tide attuned to nature's lunacy.






Long Poems