Wednesday, September 21, 2005

The Pulse

The Pulse
The stomping of the children’s feet
The harrowing of the people meets
Voices clamor
Typing slammers
Horses’ hooves on dirt do beat
Babies cry
Mothers sigh
Daddies yell out “Me? Why?”
The band plays.
Grandmother stays
In step in her rocking chair
Grandfather yells “Whatchall doin’ over there?”
Sister runs the washing machine
Brother flies high
As he jumps from the swing
You laugh
I laugh
You smile bright
I smile and blush red
The pulse of the world still beats
In your presence, the beat is still
Your blood rushing
My heart racing
The pulse of us is all I hear.

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