I’ll land you on a shamrock meadow,
letting tenderness play a god for awhile.
Thinking bitterly of the foliage pressed.
Here! A smile, long-waited to be indulged.
Minutes we’ve borrowed from heaven,
So much for peril we part.
Living, are you living? Still living,
Living still, heart, dearth of motion, halt.
Somewhat after, a lucky straw drawer
Shall we? I want to stay. Cuddle.
Betting on fireflies for the rain not to come
Muddle again. All wet. Softly, - How do you think I‘ve done?
Pressed foliage
© Copyright: Fern, 2003
Свидетельство о публикации №103050900188
Свидетельство о публикации №103050900188
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