| Greatness Flickering My dreaming feet but my hands are dreaming too and combing back the soft green threads of grass those leaves that each one moves with the pushing weight of my hand against them and with them, moving and still - becoming moving and still. Becoming what eyes behold. Fingers sliding and pointing up like blades, shining green tongues skin drinking the sun dripped from a blue roof Tops of blue trees hung, a tapestry of varied tendril branches, wind blown hair - those strands, lace twisted with the silhouettes of darker dreaming arms. |