Plying Song

Photo by J. Ruth Kelly, 2012

words weaken meaning
sometimes, these roots reach too deep
for merely speaking…

my heart blooms instead;
soul rivers running fully
humming centuries

so much unspoken
fruit piled high,  birds plying song
and this love unsung.

2 thoughts on “Plying Song

  1. Your beautiful poem reminded me of this:

    Tired of all who come with words, words but no language
    I went to the snow-covered island.
    The wild does not have words.
    The unwritten pages spread themselves out in all directions!
    I come across the marks of roe-deer’s hooves in the snow.
    Language, but no words.

    — Tomas Tranströmer

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