The Spring Inside The Middle Of Autumn Poem by gregory collins

Who is it you long for? Is it that good blue clay you dreamt
comes alive in the sky again, day after yesteday's day.

It is the cutting of trees that roll toward each other having that opportunity,
like the years past wonder whose supper she will be fixing.

Or maybe when you leave my hair like the many inlets of Lake Atlantic,
like when we sleep back to back like beads on a string.

Escaping to spring fields that have fallen on their wings,
or running away from the riverbed of autumn's eternal heaven.

Where my heart is so unmoved, there couldn't even be
greater torrents if i pushed myself along without a trace.

If i was a burning flower that stung your hand more than blossoms,
because it is beautiful when you thought you were in this world

with or without my soul. When you stared at me in the firepit
of realities dreamy illusions: of a poem that gets stolen for pillows.

Of what one forgets when dreaming it is a butterfly
brought home from the market, like i bought the roots of the moon in fall.

I buy an old pond and threw worship in like a frog. Because this
is the heart, no better than barbarians and how grateful i am to be that.