When I came at that age..poetry
was in me..I never knew that was me..
Like the last red cherry on the tree..
left for me..while the rest of the blooms
float along..ever faster moving..
on that fast moving river of dreams.
The teachers voice feint, her face forgotten
her mind I remember, lessons of her heart
imprinted inside as the heart of the tree
always made of wood..
When words made us warm then cold,
fire of the sun turning sunflowers yellow,
while the clouds ran through the sky, like
cotton balls falling across each face turned
up in a smile eyes bright soft red lips parted.
It was then my mind saw things that she saw,
but neither could say what they saw then held.
The trees where forever changed, roses smelled
different I looked at each piece of wood with a blush.
Cloth covered miracles filled berries, cups full of milk
while silk made my brain go red, then pink, finaly blank.
In the end poetry fills a blank page with the ink of friends
never knowing when they come or go, keeping pace
with words never the same while I grow harder with age
as other hard things now grow soft flowing from your heart.