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 this silence I speak.
Originally published here
Tricia Sankey 
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