A poem written each day upon waking. It's mostly unedited. I think that's the point. Promise not to laugh, or let me give up, and please, wish me luck.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
1/22/11
he shines only in tints
of gold and purple, gleaming
spreading light
with waters
like rivers, streaming
I loved the unbounded landscape
he was
and his feet were bare
and there
he was.
"They say he is art."
ReplyDelete"What should we call him?"
"Heart."
...
"Sounds like love."
"Close."