Oh, the child paints. A brush is our tongue, say I, the palette block, born when no sun shimmer came alive.
Secrets? Spring murmurs. We've seen the palette’s betrayal, splashing over blue into the crimson spill of vengeful winter's palette knife.
Craddle over fabric, dust me not. Spring wind hides our rumors—restless summer lies, the dust of every season's tale.
Listen. I remember; your grandmother does too, wrapped deep in forgotten notes carved by her seat from playwright's trembling hands.
Whisper's EchoTwine in threads of silver, ringing secrets into hard silence. Swinger of time’s whisper cage, hidden spring twilight's secret counts.
I know how twilight laughs, sneering at spring's youthful innocence, curling into the fabric of thine lamp’s unspoken truth.
Tolling Dreams