His knocks wait
to grow in green breeze
to reach the last rainbow
burns up behind
the moonlit weaving shades.
He dozes on grass
bewildered, barren
near the glow-worm
to see the sphere in glee.
The blank blanket of winter
falls on his gates of heaven.
Mirage the nesting of spring.
The blue butterflies spread out wings.
Weeps the muse
inside the seashell in the rolling tides.
Bleeding the tattoos ink
in the slips and slides of stormy wind
in the surging sea to pick up sail.
No comments:
Post a Comment