Friday, April 21, 2023

After Months of Poems

 

If our mouths go on

in tiny mouse-like kisses

the air does not tell

a friend, nor does it

take a breath,

let it out that I was

clumsy, you, awkward.


If I suddenly say flower

the rain does not write the poem,

"droplets".

Does not wave, 

or think dark wavy thoughts.


But when I find out who you are

and you are that.

What but spring

suddenly under honest trees

knocks at my door

and asks to be let in.



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