A song of new lyrics, a cup of wine
Yesteryear's arbor, old season's weather
When will the sun once more shine?

In a dream dreary the flowers fall
In garden's depth and winding heap
Only the swallow's songs do I retrace
Alone on the fragrant path, I pace.

Can you feel pulse
of a moment before it
explodes on face?

I have yet to find
my tiger to ride for an
antique encounter.

Pomegranates.
You squeeze the red flesh
to find out viper.

Pressed flowers
Like pages
Of the Bible I’ve never opened
But weighs heavy on my back
Southern strains
The belt
The weight
All pressed
Flowers
In pages

those living
things

living deep
inside

sleep most
days

and most
nights

only come
alive

when you
walk by

and say hi