The palm at the end of the mind, beyond the last thought, rises in the bronze distance. A gold feathered bird sings in the palm, without human meaning, without human feeling, a foreign song. You know then that it is not the reason that makes us happy or unhappy.
The bird sings. Its feathers shine. The palm stands on the edge of space. The wind moves slowly in the branches. The bird's fire-fangled feathers dangle down.

Saturday, December 22, 2007

what's true

I watched you run the gauntlet
with such grace, nothing touched you.
The rubber band man in some short alley
is bending over backwards , begging you stop, to look, to maybe press yourself right up against the wall and kiss him
But no, you pass on by without a glance
With such finesse, such beauty.
The tormentors put down their sticks, shut their mouths,
and scatter rose petals in your path.

-for hannah lee
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2 comments:

  1. Hannah LeeDecember 22, 2007 at 2:14 PM

    And you, my friend
    Watching
    Never from a distance

    I could sense you
    Close by
    Our shadows mingling playfully

    No man of rubber
    Or of steel
    Or of King Arthur's flesh

    Could do me harm.

    ReplyDelete
  2. GledwoodDecember 22, 2007 at 5:10 PM

    JOANNA! YOU LUCKY COW!

    LIVING IN ANTIGUA/BARBUDA!!

    WHEN I'M STUCK IN RAINY VULGAR OLD LONDON

    YOUR BLOG IS MAGNIFICENT BTW...

    GREAT STUFF!!

    ;->...

    FROM GLEDWOOD
    "VOL 2"...

    HTTP://GLEDWOOD2.BLOGSPOT.COM

    ReplyDelete

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