Maybe through writing I can speak

With tiny blossoms of rounded thoughts

And promising inimitable buds of spring

In ink there are no wasted words

That turn blood red with autumn

And fall from lips like lost loves

Stained with forgotten meanings

Written words gently cascade down

on the branches of a willow

To touch the forgotten

And shoot upward on the leaves of a redwood

To contemplate eternity

Words remember unpretentious promises

And nourish furrowed hands with new subsistence

And like a Lilly facing the breaking dawn

I will find inspiration in a droplet of sunlight

And a new being in a brilliant verse