Poet Commentaries

Eschewing Lead

The breeze off the ocean
through the shore’s pines,
over that field of Durum wheat,
finally finds my face.

A greedy gasp taken.
I turn in tomb
toward a crevice in stone
where it enters my hell.

This barrage of moments
and upliftings;
bright boosted beams through carbon,
do not break the stone.

Time still is not altered.
Breeze over wings;
my soring soul finds limits,
but a taste of free.

I cannot unday and night
and fly that shore
or tickle those stalks of wheat
and be aroma.

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