it is world
when you hold him close
and he is sleeping
sometimes
in short shallow sweet puffs
sometimes
in long contented chest-raising sighs
sometimes
it is through congested struggling passages
but always there
the surest sign of life
of being
of presence in
this world
so tired of the harsh cynical breathing of winter people
and his sure lungs
breathe the flute of spring
leading us into
garden of good
No comments:
Post a Comment