traffic in the sky

there is a place where the grey steel leans
into a pastel purple
and the clouds make way

like devils’ whispers turned to smoke
left alone in black dust

the light of patience filtering through the sky’s traffic like ripples radiating from the epicenter

of the rumbling of a heart thats was like a rock
now gushing forth a river—

and who saved the yellowing-green leaves of summer’s ‘trees

once aching from the hot blaze of the oppressive sun

now aching for it and from the separation and the every sting of the beating rain

that quenches the thirst of those parched

biding by their journeys until they break their fasts from home

and love and rest their eyes and their lips

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