Neither is childhood. My childhood brims with memories of the backyard. I learned early-on that wild roses are delicate-looking but hardy and prolific. Later I learned there's far less than 6 degrees of separation between a flower and a weed. Alas, there wasn't a bench in my childhood backyard. Life isn't perfect; though childhood is a layering of textures surprisingly hardy, robust & delicate. Quite the mix. Just what I aim for in a meal. And a poem.
Sweet and hardy. Always satisfying.
ReplyDeleteQué linda la poesía!
ReplyDeleteMetrix
ReplyDeleteideas without paper have nowhere to go
exaction multiplies this resolution
cycles of certainty easily blown
off course limitations cast off their discourse
oh love! they concentrate with all their pigments
Cycles and diameters as she wanders the fields--engaging, releasing
the scent of the flowers she sees
1994/2016 SF, CA