Dovina1 Jul 2007

Always the feeler of sway, hearer of rustling leaves, of rising accent, river’s current. Doctrinally, of charismatic leaning, I suspect—the feel and flow of grass superceding its sound religious dogma. Your awe may come with gentle wind that tosses heads in rhythmic waves, mine beneath a concrete cylinder rising tall above a wheatfield town. Please don’t change. And look again for sway; I’ve breathed on it.