Thursday, August 20, 2015

7057. WHEN A ST. FRANCIS COMES HOME

WHEN A ST. FRANCIS 
COMES HOME
These fields are rich with whisper - they sway 
and they roll with the breeze. I can hear 
(shh! almost) what they are saying; yet I 
know it is the language of birds, not mine.
Nonetheless : something rings a true bell; 
something comes as an understanding. As 
I do not need the translator for the sunlight 
or the rain, so too I can nudge a meaning 
from these oh so silent words.

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