(The trigger for this poem was a photograph showing hardwood floors. One of the boards was pulled up and to the side uncovering a bright red feather.) Life In the distance there is the echo of birds calling. My rocking chair rhythmically taps a scratchy tune on the wooden planked floor below. The radio I play stands quiet today. Only the flipping of the pages intrigues my heart as I consume the novel that has attached itself to my grasping longing fingers. We are a rhythm; the chair, the birds, my fingers flipping pages, my heart pounding my breath inhaling, exhaling. I am one with the words bellow, one with the story teller who told his tale so long ago. A century is divided by the space I create as my mind unfolds the secret place you brought to this page. So beautiful are your words I drink them down in gulps and sips and swirls of taste. They fill the dehydrated crevasses of my imagination and bring me to life. ~ Composed by Sita Carboni Back to the Kits Writers Page Home