A Drop Of It. Poem by Christoph Praus
A Drop Of It.
The faintest dew anoints my face,
And disappears without a trace, into mist,
Sol warms it like each drop were sacred,
And in the verdegris awakes it, and me,
As a soft breeze gently pushes back,
I reflect o'er long on which I lack, a passion?
A drive? A cause? A worth for me,
But is it sad such things come seldom free?
Thursday, May 14, 2015
Topic(s) of this poem: thought
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4/16/2024 7:26:00 AM # 1.0.0.1119
