Saturday, May 17, 2008

In the forests which heave,
With every breeze that rushes through them,
Near the chuckle of that mountain stream,
Where your laughter rolls down the mountain top.
I’ve kept a tiny flower, under a bed of rocks

Windy and dark

Last embers of a dead stub

Dance of the clouds through a full moon

Kissing my forhead with each crack of lightening

Oh, wuthering are those heights

Where my heart leaps in bounds