Call Me Sybil

A  L  O  H  A !

" Long before our time

 they called her old,
But she'd walk down the same road

 every day.
Her age became

 too much to say
In years — and, like a forest's,

 would be told-

" In centuries. 

She comes to stand at dusk —
Her spot each time the same —

 and to foretell.
She is a hollow,

 wrinkled husk,
Dark

 as a fire-gutted citadel.

" She has to turn

 her flock of talking

 loose
Or it will grow

 too crowded

 to relieve.
Flapping and screaming, 

words are flying 

all

Around her. 

Then, returning home

 to roost,
They find a perch

 beneath her eyebrows' eaves,
And in that shadow

 wait for night to fall. "

Rainer Maria Rilke

 <>[}:{]<>

I too know

centuries of

experience

[ not ALL of it

my own ] 

 Go out

each day,

returning to this 

spot.

Words

flap,

emerge,

fly about.

OK,

maybe I tease them,

a bit,

am pleased by them,

even 'sneeze'

them.

But they roost

not only in my

eyes

[ my photos ]

Miracle!

They roost

in YOUr heart!

Thank YOU

for giving my words,

my eyes,

a noble home.

Drop off some words

of Your Own

 in 'Comments '

                          Warmly, cloudia