Random Transmission from Ripe Twilight
received: January 20th 2008
There is mist crowning the mountain, and there is time for contemplation. In a ripe twilight, we will talk without the essence of suspended air shouldering in, without dying tree poems and pine needles in my back. Hours are long with sunken pause when Saturn sits and beckons to know her moons. A whisper is like a good wine seated in the dusky woods; resisting the penchant of fervent tongues. One turn off the mark, and it will breathe, and Sun will gift her patience with a dance upon her countenance and stars will be fathomed and the tide will sound as it should, steady, and rolling in with ease.
2 years ago