an eye from a stalk

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The bereft draft of a 
    drop of wet sky will tell you
    tales from a vivid north
    and it will speak the eastern vale.

When talking with clouds, listen
    to the raven wanting to
    claim attention to some space
    and a little time.

The card of a small wall of
    thistle bridges the world;
    another world opens up in
    an eye, from a stalk.

The throwback to an ancient necessity
is green; the wander of an eye’s
lowering of curvature is its shell
of calm, and the quickening of
the quill is its fire.

Mountain smoke gathers an
hour past the file of
germs that woo the word that
spell that glue that binds the
bell that rings the mountain quick.

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The weather stream jostles
for day in the event that
the cry for river bends
a knot, a vine, a chirp
away from depth.

Silence is the growth of a chirp, and
the tweet will whistle the
hum of the stream that brushes
past my gush of hurt, a century
of whistle.

Some rope withstands the
feel of the heart strand;
where is the kind
truth that settles my binary drums?

The valor of a purple stir is
a call to my ocean of thorns of
a valley that stirs the moan,
that fills the ink of rhythm.

Beyond the ken of power, the
    flow of the morning thrush
    is green is present is
    there willing, combing
    the steady remnants of day.

The reach of gold and
    sand that cusps the
    thread of my warm grasp
    of this broken bit of
    nuance, red with worry.

Wound up in stark volumes
    that gear up strands of
    dearness and tearing the
    filament of an unborn thought
    perpendicular to the blue veil.

(Naran and Ayubia; mid-June 2015)