In your hands you are reading a poem
that no one has read before. I wrote
it for you, to be given at the right moment.
In your hands you are reading poetry
that belongs to you. I wrote them for you
because I don't know what to do with them.
I kept them in a box, in journals and blogs,
for years because I was scared that you
wouldn't want them. Scared that you already
had found a poem to read.
But, here it is; here they are.
I know that you miss your home:
the garden you started when it was just dead grass;
Median plants, your attempts to create
a forested mountain, rivaled that of
I want you to take this poem and plant it.
I want you to read this poem and let it grow,
Amytis, and let it surround you.
It is in your hands now, so that after
I am gone, these Babylonian gardens
will survive the earthquakes.
- On Death
- Solemn Aspirations
- Theoritical Dream
- Dancin' a little
- Writer's Block
- The Writer and the Poet
- A Eulogy for my Father
- Song of Myself
- Laurel, MT
- Budding Persephone
- the forest
- The Somnambulists
- Poet Again
- Under the Apple Tree
- Late One Night
- My Last Will and Testament
- Something for Someone Else
- born to catch butterflies on her tongue
- Mother of Hynos
- She felt lonely. So often, we are two ships, descr...
- My Own
- ▼ March (30)
- ► 2006 (17)