A whirling dervish.
Oh for one.
And yet it rains with-
Oh for one.

A spinning top-
Of jeweled bells.
How it sparkles.
It rings the dells.

But purity is found-
Beneath sheaves of sound,
Attached on doors,
And piled on floors.

A whirling dervish.
Of jeweled bells in sound.
Of sounds that echo silently.
Of floors that glisten-
And spin.


Anonymous
5/24/2006
09:29:07 PM