Spring on the wind
by Ben Bussewitz
Spring on the wind,
the sun has not set for days,
it feels warm on pale reflection complexion,
the movement into grace of days,
the grace like hearts of dolphins,
counting out noble chords and river-jumps to celebrate,
the underwater family alacrity in position in caliber of many
to fill up the silver frames and the time and clock we have framed,
until epochal shifts open
arising from the graves, the whole human people
responding to their wait, the pondering and movement,
shifting atrophy of form, quick now and sudden, the song
bounces suddenly, into more movement, style, and a citadel
of the old and worn, the worn without lottery,
or stock options, or bonds, in a ceremonial procession,
of the life on the run, as we are counting our stars right,
and on above the seizure, both hands now to twelve,
the sun is just not setting,
it is daytime for all our life, now.
And so we shine like children without any doubts.
by Ben Bussewitz
Spring on the wind,
the sun has not set for days,
it feels warm on pale reflection complexion,
the movement into grace of days,
the grace like hearts of dolphins,
counting out noble chords and river-jumps to celebrate,
the underwater family alacrity in position in caliber of many
to fill up the silver frames and the time and clock we have framed,
until epochal shifts open
arising from the graves, the whole human people
responding to their wait, the pondering and movement,
shifting atrophy of form, quick now and sudden, the song
bounces suddenly, into more movement, style, and a citadel
of the old and worn, the worn without lottery,
or stock options, or bonds, in a ceremonial procession,
of the life on the run, as we are counting our stars right,
and on above the seizure, both hands now to twelve,
the sun is just not setting,
it is daytime for all our life, now.
And so we shine like children without any doubts.
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