by Suzanne Grosser



The faintest of whispers, the softest of sighs,

a “did I see something” obliquely pass by?


a movement that speaks;  a presence that loves,

a whisper of gossamer; myriad doves.


not much is required; so little we need,

the smallest of dreams, a mere mustard seed.


a glimpse, or a glimmer, a flicker of light,

a promise of day against vapid night.



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