Back in the Sorela Alley of the Aspens

 

There in the valleys of those homes

only for a moment in some mornings,

an otherworldly stillness would sting

and stun us as the fog was pouring in,

exhaled from all the ponds and hills.

 

Yet somewhere somehow the silence

would strangely sometimes commune

but I didn’t need ears to perceive it.

The call was finding its aim within,

a hint a nameless distant memory

 

as if someone from a life long-lost in the past

waved again and caught me in a painted silk.

And the motion would spin a timeless dance,

using wisps of hair instead of a dampened brush.