Little Conversations

A running conversation stood catching it's breath on the hill of decision, on the day of it's death In an effort to stop the inevitable flow of the moon in it's belly on a mission to grow It stepped to the edge of the hill and transpired with verbiage gone ancient and aching for fire It stood up on tiptoes and opened it's mouth to let the sun in, or to let the moon out This running conversation was made up of air and moods of the moment and bent silver hair which reflected the sun in an effort to stir all the things that it loved while he motioned to her It took a look down to the Pool of Dissolve and felt the earth shimmer within it's revolve In an effort to keep conversation alive it trampolined toes into a swan dive.