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.
Copyright © Tatyana Carney | Year Posted 2006
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