Inland


There is an ocean in my mind
That curves each wave
Towards the farthest shores of sight

Where purple and crimson birds of flight
Descend lazily through the stretching branches
Of the drowsy auburn trees.

Flight, you would say, is an ethereal thing,
But I can feel its pulse and rhythm
In the beating of my blood

And the graceful arc of each bird
Settling to the ground in that unseen land
Leaves an afterimage of its flight

Etched upon the eye. Lower down,
Among the furtive roots that course
Their random yet persistent way,

Among the litter of the forest floor,
Delicately hued flowers flaunt their petals
In self-delight at the beauty they possess.


©2016 Michael Fraley




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