28 March, 2011


Snow melting as if, in your syncope,
being overtaken by the sun, clear
all about so your falls are in

We inhale.

Melting, melting away, as we breathe,
in and out, our breath does its
cleansing. And the sun lifts
a dragonfly up to do its

We exhale.

Dew on its wings from the melt of the
morning, the dragonfly has tuned to
the rhythm. The warmth is felt,
the melt is danced, and from
syncope we are awakened.

Copyright Denise A White

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