The senses prickle
Picking memories, like black berries
The cold sunset warms them into color.
Threading the past with golden rain
Soaking, my spirit with reverie
Engulfing my emotions, with longing
Past crunches with present leaves,
Allowing perfect closed-eyed perspective
Fresh, beginnings smell like Falling breezes
That allow untouched skin to sense, itself,
My soul is whole for a rushing while
Allowing cherry blossoms to bloom, internally
Juices falling tangibly onto anxious tongue,
Bliss becomes coherent cacophony,
Catching tension like trinkets
In the pocket of my childhood,
Imagination is grasped in my open fist
Dreams dance around the strands of flaxen hair
For one instant this prickled life makes sense
~DaLe 10/28/08
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