I plough her
                 field

A drought ends
           when her waters flow.

But she never waters
                        my mushroom.

Seeds never devoured,
                      dehydrated upon release.

I plough her
                 field

A drought ends
           when her waters flow.

But she never waters
                        my mushroom.

Seeds never devoured,
                      dehydrated upon release.

My thoughts are transparent balloons
unattached from others, singularly
caressing the river of the mind.

Only visible when musing forms
on the exterior, like dewdrops of
syllables coalescing  do they rise.

I observe these tiny reflections
drifting on there own, in forms of
vocalization that collect in verse.

My thoughts are transparent balloons
unattached from others, singularly
caressing the river of the mind.

Only visible when musing forms
on the exterior, like dewdrops of
syllables coalescing  do they rise.

I observe these tiny reflections
drifting on there own, in forms of
vocalization that collect in verse.

I asked her if I could
dip my
      pen in her inkpot

She replied "What are you going to write?

A brevity of love, I said..
                                  
                               "Your confident, she replied...