"... where the three silk stitches of her cry ..."
these on line literary sites.
I Used to Believe
that certain signposts were set for only me
as if signals were found along a private maze
but now as I approach the arrow to the grave
I see how ambitions shed like autumn leaves.
My gaze is set upon a vast and clear oblivion,
an opening into always
where this private me feels nothing,
and still light glances off the lake,
and ripples dance
as the great blue heron sails,
wings spread into the woods at the edge
to disappear amidst the ferns and leaves,
and I am still here swimming
in the sun, hearing birds
chirp in the shade
where wild flowers are discovered
hiding bright colors
from all ambitious gaze.
The Young Girl
who chattered without stopping
leaps in my heart.
She is lost among the lizards.
When she broke her glass hair ribbon
all the shops in heaven
closed their doors.
In the silence of the streets
I hear a sad voice
mature and flowering
coming from a nearby alley,
I place my hand over my mouth
where the three silk stitches of her cry