I never cry in our garden.
I dance and I spin there, I
know colors of wind are fuschia, and orchestral;
the heads of our garden stems still sway to its time
and jazz of airs our scarves blew together
beneath our kisses,
trembled to us in the night,
in our garden.
I never, never cry. I
never cry in our garden, never.
I in our garden cry, never, never
and I never cry in
our
garden.
I, your garden, always, always am. I never,
never cry in our garden.
I never cry
in our garden
I never
cried to,
in our garden.
I never cry in our garden.
Comments
1 - 7 of 7
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For one who continually plants seeds, waiting for blooms to rise, I must admit...I never cry, either...but your words would cause stones to weep, my Love.
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Its so sad I almost cired in school! wonderful work here! Keep writting you great at it.
~ Chelsey -
Sadness cries through the words in this write with its beauty of color and nature. If one did cry in the garden it would only enhance the life within a tear drop.Wonderful moqui!
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A lovely piece of form filled with sadness and beauty. A flow with unique depth and originality of thought and purpose.
Well spoken indeed!!!
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Very beautiful
I almost cried- I love the way you describe the colors of the wind, especially. There is a gentleness about this poem that I love. Very good work. -
This is unusual. Like a child, in the garden not mourning the loss of their mother, but rejoicing because she resounds in the echos of the frescias and reds and whites and the balmy night with its saccharine smells.I really wish I could offer something useful, and insightful, but I'm afraid I haven't quite been miss analysis lately. There isn't anything to analyze, not saying there isn't anything of substance, but it's there,given on the base of my spine. Beautiful.
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wow, this
very unusual indeed
almost a chant
to keep ones breath
the scarves
like markers slap
as prayers in the winds
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