They come bearing gifts,
flowers, wreaths...
They say fools fall in love
in the hot moist night...
Cherished thoughts
Inked in my heart...
The wind floats far from it's resting place
in search of warmth to rise again...
My grandfather owned a farm in Ireland;
he was everything to that land...
I am Tuesday's child,
born on an August morning...
Sorcerous arcs slashed the vast night
craven blades, as cruel as their light...
A handful of promises,
assurance all along...
The morning tenderness
Its fairly sunrise...
Sounds spiral
Up, up...
I.
Before you were born...
To whom do I write this poem about?
To which recipient do I send it to...