The night is wind that blows spring about,
pushing poetry through stems
and long legged humans;
rain-hints are effervesence in the blood,
shining dust off,
as though we had no skin, were wind,
were curling air into the chosen buds.
Morning is beset by sunrise,
with night music on the breath
and night blooming lilies under eyelids.
© 2010 Charlotte Merrill Jensen
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