Should one worry
if her dream
still has no bloom,
not even a bud
to sing to?
As lately I've been avoiding words-
perhaps I fear my own thorn,
as though its sting
might render me speechless,
incapable of poem
or maybe I'll prattle about;
like those daisies
chirruping in the windowsill,
but they know not of sorrow-
those little blossoms embrace rain
with their leafy arms
but no, not me
I seek solace in a pen
who sometimes spats ink
with deliberate aim
