a butterfly whispers to me,
this is your lake as of now.
take good care of it,
for it is long,
and difficult to clean.
i think the butterfly expects too much of me.
after all
i can't even sit on a log
without crushing a web,
or admire the breadth of it
without stepping in mud.
the lake wants my blood,
but i want longer days,
and a house made of brick
where the brook fades.
No comments:
Post a Comment