the long wait

there’s a mountain
where the wind
passes
through
as though it were
breathing
in a dreamless sleep,
and the yellow flowers
don’t wilt,
as the cicadas
yawn like
newborns,
and the people
rest on street steps
and stone curbs
with wine stained smiles
peering from
sunburnt eyes,
waiting
for the
mountain to wake.

Comments

1
  1. love it.

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