Continuing our Poem Revisited blog feature, below is a poem by Terrain.org early contributor Sherry Saye — this one from Issue No. 3:

Many, no millions

Many, no millions of notes,
dark fingers bare and frozen,
each reach a paint-blown curve
toward bliss, they hiss wind,
vie close hollow sound.
Too, it could be the music of you,
but it is empty brown lifted deep,
surging sweet crystalline clatter
from the warm thick river,
glistening weightless on the tips,
the very tips of twigs.