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A Warm Lipped Westerly
I am madly alive today,
one has to get mad not to be dead.
I wander out,
wending through myself
allowing the warm west wind
kiss the thin ice of a low mood.
Smiles light up my gladding blood,
clouds scud.
I take the bright light
in the field rabbits' eyes,
to set fire to my own sight.
I must give praise to whatever,
I see it threading my reality
through this warm breath of infinity,
both I and it are madly in love
with every crazy-hearted lover.
This boisterous day
the Westerlies do blow,
and the Spring air leaps
as sprightly as a young girl
running over
a sweetly waving meadow -
and by god -
I am mad to be that green grass
beneath her!
Copyright ©
Eric Ashford
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