September poem!

Conceited Crusade

September Days and it’s your voice,

in rustling leaves,

you touched me first –

inside my mind,

you stole my breath. I hold your name

like a reverent monk,

I snatch what is left, this glow from my skin-

it remains, unfurls,

cascades to the tips of trees,

it touches the sun who comprehends-

who lives and breathes the silence I speak.

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Tricia Sankey

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Published by Tricia Sankey

Plays with words in her free time.

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