I
plucking strings
the player feels each note,
his eyes closed
he lets himself be surprised
by vibrations of bone or soul
II
the butterfly
splays its wings and holds,
in that stillness
it becomes a flower
’til it must butter-fly
III
wind tousles
the grain-weighted heads
of ripe wheat
the sway is erratic
the sound is subtle
Shared this here: https://grumpysgiftspoetry.org/2020/07/24/three-tanka-b-gourley/
thanks for sharing your words.
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Nice, very~
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thank you
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