Writing Love

The room with the birdsong flowing
through open windows
across the wind,
chattering, noisy sentinels of tall trees,
the room with the light dripping–
sneaking–
(soft as this morning’s quilt)
lightening the walls
illuminating the bright air,
the room with silence
save for the tapping of keys–
all this, a noisy quiet
full of a world
of boundless words.
Come.

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