O, to be new and to yearn;
when my burden is dreams
inevitably unwise,
leftover evergreen haystacks upon
bamboo and bits of forest, sun filled
powdered sugar dreams
with no good reason
except for every reason.

What I pine for now is solitude;
I do so in thin swallows from
the small of my throat
like a fish in foam;
it wakes me from slumber,
these fragrant demands for
action or release or attention or
except repression.
That would never do.

So I release to myself;
I have spent the morning vacuuming
and I long to enjoy the scent
of warm consciousness.
Forest sounds slip past fragile ears
and I find
I regret none of it.
I could doze here amongst the lovers,
doing my part endlessly,
flirting with the dandelions.


1 Comment on “To Be New and to Yearn

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