Where the wandering willows weep; for far they’ve come, no home, my foggy mind leaps to the end of the galaxy known. Who should I meet but the galaxy always alone. Once my travels cease, back to the shady grass. The tears the willows weep have turned all to laughs, to water at their feet, a home they have at last. Unlike earth beneath the trees, my roots do not dig so. They open their hairy arms to much I do not know. Like water beneath the trees absorb all I need to grow.
Feats of my burden feed on desire. All left to leaving where twin peaks aspire. Wind through your day like vines through the grama. Painted in plastic like carving a comma. Dreams left to dreaming never climb higher. That's where I keep them: the subtle belier.