The ingrown nails of history
Lanced over and over by the sun
When it walks in at the side window
With its healing rays asking
Who is not alien in this world
Who does not wander
From thing to thing
Grasping it or throwing it away
But what among the vast array
Appeals to you as ripe
And solemn for the picking
Now that you are conscious
At least of the garden
The trees willed into place
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment