Chamomile Poem by Morgan Michaels
Chamomile
I am the mighty chamomile.
Only to you lowly-
ach, it's hot!
rooted, immobile, here,
I've a knack
to spin from sunshine, soil and rain
nothing less fine than a flower,
super-seeding mine own
existential dilemma;
if that means naught to you
we shall see you yet, the winter come,
sitting foot propped up
sipping rich and steamy,
salty-sweet,
infusions of me.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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4/26/2024 9:36:58 AM # 1.0.0.1119
