October 19, 2003

October 19, 2003

In the slanting age of the year

I stood and played swordsman

beneath the hawk trees

smiling in the darkness.

Through sifted light

and cypress mornings

my blade flashed,

keen edges interpreting the air.

Across the swift-turning ground

of mossy illusions

I moved an ancient dance

piercing the equinox again and again.

The leaves drank to my promise,

the earth rushed tilting

beneath my feet,

and the light wept,

sibilant in the trees.

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~ by Mark Neal on October 26, 2008.

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