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Cool Whisper | Poetry

A Mile High: Photography by Shawn Michel de Montaigne

The curl of sage like soggy reeds, native and wild.

Smoke. Peace. A soup of stillness spiced with cayenne hope.

If morning rises so noticed, then why can’t an immortal second?

Who can claim with certainty that such a thing doesn’t exist?

I’ve driven the lonely highways,

the ones that split the purple-distant hills and curl about them,

that border airy solitude and rocks made of pink-eroding perseverance.

The air smells like that blue sage up here, sage-blue,

of desire uncircumscribed by sameness and machine-conveyance.

It whispers coolly about my ears. I dare not speak; but I want to sing.

I have lost so much. The cliff faces challenge me to lose more.

A red-tailed hawk circles above the face-cliff, tailed-red.

I can’t help but feel a kinship with her.


From Fractalverse: Volume Two


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Photography: A Mile High by Shawn Michel de Montaigne