The yearning can so deeply call outI don’t think I can plumb its depths.My kneeling eyes rest upon the skywhere buzzards upon the thermalsAre painting the sky.The wind made visiblein their artistry.The day’s folding into nightMy kneeling eyes rest upon the moonelegant in her danceof a hundred cloud veils.The clouds a celestial bonfire.Where has the yearning goneas my eyes knelt seeking a reply.Has it painted the sky,the wind visible with its cry?Are cosmic bonfires kindledin its fiery heat?Or is it nowthe sweet soundof a featherdropped into the well’sdepthswhere it restsuponthe waters of grace?
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