Tuesday, April 20, 2010

Out of the quarrel with others we make rhetoric; out of the quarrel with ourselves we make poetry. ~W.B. Yeats

She sings
songs of apple trees
that bloom without
fruit. Yellow canaries
perch to eat seeds and
steal joy. She cries
when love brushes her 
shoulder and changes
its mind. She sits on a
chair alone again and
again and wonders
if she'll always be
perfecting her 

1 comment:

  1. Beautiful. But I do so want to tell the author to take heart because she is written in the palm of her Father's hand. She is not forgotten...