The butterfly and the bee pollinate,
the unknown flower of memory,
then fly off through the gaps,
of the spiders web into the blackness,
of the vast midnight of the mind.
Words shower down into a torrent,
that falls upon a bewildered numbness,
remaining incoherent, they flow on,
into the stream where perhaps a child,
will gather them and weave them into a melody.
Slowly the poet slides away, unnoticed,
into the mist of time and unconsciousness,
Hidden deep within the flower bed of memory.
an unknown flower not yet pollinated,
still waiting in the realm of the midnight darkness.
In the childs mind the sun shines brightly,
as she brushes the words she has taken,
from the stream of life, with the days light,
The poet breathes, renewed and alive.
so it is in the universal garden of life.