by John Ian Marshall
Within these fields of intertwined grasses,
A smile, study of outstretched hands, dancing,
Dancing in a simpler past, blues tunes play on
A tiny, tinny radio, everywhere the kind of bliss
Which only occurs in dreams, spiraling, spinning,
The best of which we are awake in. Splayed
Fingers trace the tall weedsÃ¢â‚¬â„¢ uneven tops, where
Even the ringing silence sounded so good.
*Tintinnabular: of or pertaining to the ringing, jingling of bells.