do I tread the amber halls
of thought, where
the butterflies of lost imaginations
flutter, flitting to the
flowers of my existence,
blossoms of the present,
wanderings of the future,
meanderings of the past.
how softly, how softly
do I hear the echoes sing.
these echoes that bewilder,
that clarify, that ring.
they dance among the shadows,
these ghost thoughts of my mind,
from butterflies, to echoes
to the very inner of my being.
if I watch and listen and
think, without a sound
these echoing wing-beats can
become the greatness of a moment
an inspiration for all time,
leading on the very secret of my existence
a legacy to leave behind.
if I softly, oh so softly tread
the amber halls of thought.
early 2002
©eleanor clark
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