Richard Berengarten

Child, counting

Wind keeps counting
sandgrains on shifting dunes.
He cannot count me.
Summer keeps counting
stars in clear night skies.
He cannot count me.
Storm keeps counting
rain pellets in her heart.
She cannot count me.
Light keeps counting
things. She won’t ever stop.
She cannot count me.
Death keeps counting
hordes of sparrows and starlings,
hairs on your head, and
bare bones on heaps. But
I’m hiding behind closed fingers.
He cannot count me.
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a spring flows out of a mountain
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Richard Berengarten