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Sunday, June 08, 2008

Sonnet CLX

The flying fingers of a melody
drift on the breeze from wind chimes thusly sent
and dance amidst the leaves, the evidence
of wind, for fallen leaves shall prove the breeze
by showing where it treads, like in the sea,
the sea of sky, the birds tread air and fly
while flying in the wind the petals die,
the petals, dead from flowers and from trees,
like wings of birds without a feathered mane,
but still so fleeting, fickle as a dream,
which dance on leaves of time and space and air
like touching sounds that never light disdain,
but spurn it, dancing yet away, it seems,
to perch on dying fingers everywhere.

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A word is dead
When it is said,
Some say.

I say it just
Begins to live
That day.

- Emily Dickinson

Thanks, Wordle!