@3after Hundertwasser@1 Sometimes the fog submits to the lake, the lake to the sky. Naria, I loved your sister and I lived like a yellow sailboat circling that won't last. Astilbe, paper flower, my foreign girl, my rendezvous was not with you. Sometimes the innocent get snagged while floating down a canal in autumn, concentric, the thousand windows in red and green, until the gold leaf itself stops, realizing that hope is something else. Veiled morning, contemplative sky. Now, down, why crouch if not to leap to your wild horse - auburn, rippling gratefully, relieved you have arrived. |