
with a granite cliff underfoot
wisps of hair, her thousands of wings
reaching to paint the sky
keep me away from the edge she'd say
or I might fly off
and a breeze would take to heaven
her soft, sweet laughter
and she'd tell me sometimes
the rain doesn't stop at noon
the weatherman, that liar,
he would never hold fate.
our mountains sing
music only she can hear
and she walks on their ridges
carelessly kicking her steps
so I claw at the mountainside
desperate to see her
screeching, trapped between city and sky
oh, come to me, azrael.
poetry copyright Jennilyn Eaton
photo courtesy Craig Lloyd
This is, quite simply, just beautiful. It is so you and all that you do.
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