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.

Friday, February 17, 2023

Year

I wouldn't be who I amif I could bear the foliage,the hour losingits precious lightlike a knight bleeding outthrough a hole in the armor.I wouldn't be, if I could,any more than that—light on burnt leaveswhile the hurt workedits anchor, the chain easedslowly like a tongue,a word for grief thatdoesn't rhyme with thief.Any day now, autumn.Winter any day.I've shot my arrowand lived by its arcand still, the hourswon't acquit.The first time we metwe said goodbye,then we never stoppedsaying it

--Maya C.Popa

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