Windsong
-Nia Rhein
Today I lay imagining
in a grove of weeping trees,
the sound of your voice
whispering my name
cooing in the liquid breeze.
I would that I were the wind
your echo weaving through me,
forsaking the honey,
the milk, and the wine,
if only to, with you, be.
But since I am only imagining
what you left behind
I choose the music
of your heart beating,
in time, through the hush, with mine.
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