Here there are mountains. Every spring, God leans down to kiss them and they blush. Every autumn, they catch fire
My throat is a fiddle weeping for what it remembers. Long, low chords slide between my teeth and I open up to let them echo against these ancient rocks
It aches when these mountains turn blue again in summer, indigo climbing up from the foothills
Edited (too many "s ^_^;;) Date: 2016-04-06 12:48 pm (UTC)
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Date: 2016-04-06 12:47 pm (UTC)I particularly liked:
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Date: 2016-04-06 03:26 pm (UTC)