In the music of the music
I hear an inside voice
a track of memory
a bout of history
a slimline CD floods the room
in a cafe
conversation sweet
I meet you coming and going
under tables
above boards
on mattresses
in a garden
the roses not yet blooming.
Streaming...............................I can not capture
all those nuances
stilled by the morning sun
I write these lines
before I see your face.
Anita Schiffman Holzberg
Countless are my days
I am not counting
til I see your face.
Friday, 16 September 2011
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