Thoughts of the Author, the 25 Year-Old Child (The Hills of Dundee)
I wish the clouds were alive,
Grouped into families as they scuttle across the sky.
Alive like the heat
That ripples over the grape vines
Alive like the breeze that blows
Wisteria blossoms into my cup
Each tiny movement,
Each puff of air,
Teaming with a vitality that
I do not possess.
And I wish that snakes could feel love;
Give kisses with forked tongues
I guess this is strange
But life is full of so much pain anyway
Why not include more love
To even the odds?
The black oak tree is older than I am.
I wonder if it is wiser?
(Actually substantial updates when I’m not feeling so lazy.)