a magnitude without a direction
Hundreds of invisible graces support me where I stand. I am blue smooth cotton and the scent of rain and ocean. Pluck my tendons and they vibrate at the frequency of the border of day and night. I would decorate your room with plants or flowers or wrought-iron or chrome. I would adorn your mind with language and visions, your ears with songs and poems. I would embellish the already-beautiful. On hazy nights, I radiate into the fog: I am the babel of voices and I am the channel that carries them. I have secret wings.

©2001 Timothy A. Clark