I cough words
onto a page,
and hold it up to the world.
They call it art, they call it poetry.

The Earth once met a man from Albany and asked
Have you seen the sun today?
I've been looking all morning.
The man shook his head and with a task
Died and receded.

The Sun was busy,
Playing cards with a friend from outer-space
And placing a final tarot card
Took the money from his previous bets.

The Night was tired by the time the Sun returned
Broke and exhausted,
The Night asked
Where have you been?
Just out?
The usual.
Then the night went to sleep and the dawn rose at 11pm.

Dear Wildflowers,
How does it feel to be the moons favorite child?
How about the suns personal treasure?
You're born in the spring,
Bloom in the summer,
And creep into our hearts in the winter months.

Dear Wildflowers,
How does it feel when the rain falls on your petals
Washing away your impurities?
Teach me how to guide the wind.
Teach me how to live life
Simple and Easy.

Dear Wildflowers,
How does it feel to be free?
To have no boundaries?
Share with me your secret,
How did you do it?
Did you charm them with your beauty?
Or do you simply have the strength?

Dear Wildflowers,
I envy you.
You're so beautiful,
Graceful as you dance together,
Mimicking the movement of the waves,
Magnifying it.

Love,
Every teenage girl who has ever gazed out the wind,
Across the lawn,
And into life's eyes.

I reveal myself and I am lesser
I will never
be loved
by the likes of them

I entered through your garden gate;

a summer hush
no sign of us

just the grove of 
words
you grew
for her.

I returned home
a silhouette,
to tend my hothouse
of regret.