11 August 2012
It is the blue dress, The graceful glide.
A reflex smile as I go to greet her. The pillar parts, To reveal hay hair, framed in dark, After a flood of desert sun.
We talk, I articulate in two languages, and listen, A flowchart of thoughts for each sentence Its arms rearranged, discarded, One is chosen.
In one hour, a life of unheard conversations, Some would lead to tears, And one, One would change reality.
Meteorite shower of thoughts • Opuss № I