Margaret Ivensen. (№ 401612)

Everything will be the same, steady pace
The day will come, then another,
Only aired a ravine
Freeze mountain surf.
Sunset, should be quieter
But abundant leaf fall
And again the night over the black roof
Hang moon vine.
And about me not saying the words
No village postman,
No slope gold
Insulated wagon.
But the trail of my walks bitter,
Path - to two -
The gray tree on the hill
Ooze your name.
Yes flat pocket knife
Still has edges of the blades
Resin amber as a lie
The station urban constellations.