and wait for me to continue, but I am finished.
I stopped without asking you a question
or telling you much of myself
and my maypole does not draw
you to enwrap with orange warm arms
and braid with violet raspy laugh.
It is not sturdy. A wind would frazzle your work
and leave your colors flying from my tilted frame.
But the pole is buoy--a beacon. A feather on a peacock
that you can pluck. Call me sea-cock, not pole or rock
show me dye instead of fabric
an eye-drop will do
dripped below the pole into my pool.
Here where colors blend
intentions may infuse.
No comments:
Post a Comment