Postcard Poem 1


The sound of breathing, the sound of wind
rustling curtains as they silently hang,

tucking our stories among the folds.
the sound of our story told

without words, even our shadows
hold their tongues. The inside of my hand

to the inside of yours. The dialogue.
The question and the answer

and the sound of breathing.


Goodnight, Mom said…
Beautiful, Jana.
Jenn from WRD said…
That poem is amazing. And, I am also a big fan of the postcard. I'm just a bill, sittin' on Capital Hill.
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