Spring: Trees Flying Up To

Poetry Is A Sort Of Homecoming.

With A Changing Key, You Unlock The House Where The Snow Of What’s Silenced Drifts. Just Like The Blood That Bursts From Your Eye Or Mouth Or Ear, So Your Key Changes. Changing Your Key Changes The Word That May Drift With Flakes. Just Like The Wind That Rebuffs You, Clenched Round Your Word Is The Snow.

Only Truthful Hands Write True Poems. I Cannot See Any Basic Difference Between A Handshake And A Poem.

The Heart Hid Still In The Dark, Hard As The Philosophers Stone.

You're Rowing By Wordlight