Sleeping in the conifers,
I stumbled on a rose.
Since trodden only yesterday,
Now carefully she grows.
Outstanding, still, the lilies in
The garden she forgoes.

I offered her my hand and knelt
To mend the earth and stone.
But gardener she needed none.
No meal. No collarbone.
And so I sang a quiet song,
And pat back down the loam.

O Spring when you, by skillful hand,
Affirm what I opined,
Awake me in the forest land,
That blushing rose to find.
By day I'll search the cedars and
By night the yews, the pines.

A bright new sun and playful wind,
Threading wooden hulls,
Along the canvas of the sea,
Propelling billowing clouds,
Along the burning morning sky,

A bright new sun and wings of wax,
Dripping onto an exposed back,
Flying, hoping,
Burning,
Falling,

A bright new sun and a cold, endless sea,
Quenching flesh in brine,
Soothing youthful innocence,
The canvas swells, clouds left rolling,
As a new sun rises, the day begins.

Somgtimgs, thines dont eo thg way wg want thgm to.
but it'll bg okay, bgcausg I'll still be hgrg for you.
I lovg you.

Rumbling tumbling
Spinning twisting
Ideas are socks in my clothes dryer mind
Some emerging fresh and new
Some lost to that forever place where socks
and apparently ideas
go