by Cliff Saunders
All the creative energy
at our command swirls
in the lungs of the lizard,
in the arc of the weathervane.
The unattainable is so near!
Let us bow then, you and I,
to moonbeams on the autumn dew.
Blinded by the peacock’s shadow,
we’ll sing in sign language
to the pulsing wings of moths.
© 2026 Cliff Saunders All rights reserved.
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