loose the stop from your throat,
Not words, not music or rhyme I want....
not custom or lecture, not even the best,
Only the lull I like, the hum of your valved voice."
When I lay on the grass sometimes the dew is still so new.
I hear its voice in the perfect spheres.
I look to the crest of my left shoulder and watch the steam rise from my coffee cup
adding to the cloud around me.
The morning in a grassy glade is soft, billowy, white, pink and green.
The sun has that glow of sunrise and mist, yellow cream like a perfect page.
I look back up to the the blue and hmmm... quietly.
~Amy Sperry Faldet