Finally,
I figured the flaws in flowers
as I humbly phrased myself
with their buds.
These fingertips
yearningly fathered some verses,
hoping they would harvest
a budding future
and a past that fits me.
(Though my words
distort the floor.)
As you stumbled rigidly,
I realized that even petals
are too platonic
to paint a dialogue
and my language wilted.
















amazing poetry!









54 old applause
