This isn't a poem. It's a poet tree. Upside down, missing a half, and oddly (what's with em?), even occasionally sprouting out rhythms. I kept it in mind, but it just couldn't fit. I tried to contain it, but it just wouldn't quit. So I pondered some thoughts and wondered a bit, when suddenly it hit me that you're into trees. That you do seem to think 'em the knees of the bees; and your light is a sun and your laugh the breeze. If it grows in your heart, for as brief as a squeeze, I hope that you take it and slake it, oh please. And if you wake up someday to find it has leaves, pluck out a petal and bring it to me; to a lone gardner, who rhymes cheesily.
4 comments:
The
Roots
Of
This
Tree
This isn't a poem.
It's a poet tree.
Upside down,
missing a half,
and oddly (what's with em?),
even occasionally sprouting out rhythms.
I kept it in mind, but it just couldn't fit.
I tried to contain it, but it just wouldn't quit.
So I pondered some thoughts and wondered a bit,
when suddenly it hit me that you're into trees.
That you do seem to think 'em the knees of the bees;
and your light is a sun and your laugh the breeze.
If it grows in your heart, for as brief as a squeeze,
I hope that you take it and slake it, oh please.
And if you wake up someday to find it has leaves,
pluck out a petal and bring it to me;
to a lone gardner,
who rhymes
cheesily.
My favorite thing about this blog, are these poems.
I've never written before you.
These responses. From whomever.
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