Wednesday, 17 December 2014

Thus spoke Pinocchio.

The next one...

Thus spoke Pinocchio:

I believe my myriad leaves
became words, each poised
to find a truth
as quickly lost as the green shoot
plummeting into the universe
constructed from my new mind.

My hands touched objects,
made them more real
than a tree’s leaf ever will.
Some nights I remember
branches rubbing like skin
against the window pane.

Movement is the greatest joy,
when lonely it allows me
to find a new landscape;
new space for the words
falling as easily as amber leaves

in autumn’s forgetful rain.

1 comment:

  1. a beautiful sonnet reminds me of four season's in a Melbourne Day - Michel Paul 79Vintage