Bamboo Gardens
The wind has a rhythm
born evident
by the sway of my bamboo garden.
It gently moves like a fine composition
harmonically pure
flute, oboe, harp in chorus.
The movement beats like wooden drums
softly calling my name,
embracing, my inner self.
Greeness, not quite a sound,
but almost; is a true tone.
It washes across the backs of my lids
ushering me across foreign fields.
(c)Susan Elliott
The wind has a rhythm
born evident
by the sway of my bamboo garden.
It gently moves like a fine composition
harmonically pure
flute, oboe, harp in chorus.
The movement beats like wooden drums
softly calling my name,
embracing, my inner self.
Greeness, not quite a sound,
but almost; is a true tone.
It washes across the backs of my lids
ushering me across foreign fields.
(c)Susan Elliott
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