That Secret Meeting... Poem by RIC BASTASA

a voice faint coming from the valleys of the heart
the whistle of the boy from beneath the barns of
youth memories surging like flowers lotus unfolding
on the ponds of solitude
the voice joins with the other voices from the desert
places of the lonely hearts
(how many? finally there are many like sands slipping from
a crevice of profanity)
a choir of singing scenes, mountains and hills under the fog
and mist, trails winding, and trees like broccoli on the
backyard of abandoned women

the sun comes out in splendor
rain showers faint like a smile of the shy maiden
a rainbow slices the spheres
between us.