By  Don Kingfisher Campbell

 

The plants think

we spend so much

time moving around.

The walls know

too many secrets

to speak, only crack.

The blankets revel

in their memories,

stories told in threads.

The sky sings out

a constant revelation,

if we simply listen.

We are their favorites.

They enjoy our drama,

turning to our eyes,

Which tell the whole

truth inside dreams,

poetry through the hours.

There is no more to say,

just that clouds are related

to the electricity of looks.

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