Tuesday, March 4, 2014

// w h e r e w e w a n d e r //

Poetry for me is like a window that opens automatically whenever I go toward it. I sit there, look out, sing, shout, cry, merge with the image of the trees, and I know that on the other side of the window there is a space and someone hears me, someone who might live two hundred years hence or lived three hundred years ago. It makes no difference—it is a means of connection with existence, with existence in its broader sense.
—Forugh Farrokhzad, in an interview
Every morning we walk, 
and the waves respond
with their coming and going.
The birds continue their
perpetual dance of myth.
They dive and rise, as
we remember where we
came from.  
The soft song, hummed
in a gentle note that
is never noticed,
except by you. 
We rise, our bodies 
in rhythm with our 
walk.  Each foot keeps 
us going.  Every inch 
brings us to the last.  
And the ocean reminds
us where we came from. 
And we will walk it again.
The streets sparkle golden. 

c o m i n g  h o m e 


  1. the first photo melts me love. melts me into two.

    love, kerrie (@bonjourmoon)


  2. This is so beautiful! I'm glad I stumbled across this tonight.



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