Melancholy and reflection are the poet’s friends.
They leave and come again.
They are the fertile soil
That works its way
Between the toes of his imagination
And prod and shift the kindling fires
Of his unknown, unseen, deeply buried passion.
And, in time, with much wrestling,
They bring forth the most delicate of flowers,
Perfect curves and colors
For the reader’s pastime hours.
But little does the reader know what strivings,
And what great waves heave within the soul.
At times, the poet wonders if he’s been swallowed,
Buried whole. But he wouldn’t have it any other way.
For so are flowers made
That sprout and bloom
Then fade away.
