fear enters the stage
like rapids on old boulders
there are children at play
making toys of what you made



...this poem isn't working.

i can't write on weekdays.

root you

when you pass
light flows out of you
drowning for moments here,
I see you everywhere
this garden of mine, my dying shrine
feeding my roses and hydrangeas
all black now, only my past is blue
when you pass
they’ll come after you

Courtesy

Crawling through thorns for roses,
from spring to fall.
You are full of words for beauty,
And though I know you have many share
I know you can never give them to me.
I am without complaint.
I am satisfied to have turned your eyes.
To pronounce your grace, of all my efforts
My only utterances were words.
I am satisfied.