Primitive
are written a stone,
a branch, a bird.
In the brushstroke
of a word, the stone
is cold and gray
and resolute.
Above the stone,
the yearning
of a graceful limb.
Outstretched wings
suggest the wind.
In the space between,
a sky of dreams
where you and I
have fled,
far from the ashes
on our earthen floor.
April 18, 2006
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