i

why do we want to be
loved by strangers?
for a plate of stew
or is there more..

i mean, lily taps her
pipe-like this-
i write and send it off
into the ether..

for your delectation?
do i have owt to prove?
am i clever?
do i want love?

am i small again
pulling at some obscure
apron- string- pain
like a lost dove..

or do i just enjoy writing
after breakfast
in the sunny garden-
just butterfly stuff..

ii

creation a little piece
left over-some fluff
some mote of dust

just as the washing up
calls and time kicks
she  examines a twig..