The red wind whispers – calling me

Out to the sharp world, the cold land,

The place of polished stone, the land of keen breath,

The clean and parched country

Where the river of moments slows its crawl,

And the world runs far, far away to the

Uttermost limb of blue and brown.

The blank places beckon and chide, reaching

Long and deep to find my invented corner, to

Lift me up from my comfortable blindness,

To bring me out to my real house.

The hollow lands fill up my eyes

And the empty flank of the world

Supports my soul.

This site and all text and photographs within are Copyright, 2002, David P. Crews. All rights reserved.

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circle@newrational.com

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