If I share with you my flower
Would it not offend the butterfly
That keeps looking for it beneath
The vestige of this fulgent cloak
A flapping wing mean a hundred
things --delectation of a morning
flight, change in the foreseeable
future-- and yet nothing at all.
Should I steer this flimsy vessel
Or let the winds decide where
to land me on my feet.
Forums:
Reviews
No reviews yet.