Tuesday, April 1, 2014

Flowers and other pickable weeds

April 4, 1980

I am not the man I should be
I am not the song that echoes in the morning
With the rising sun, the settling dew
And crisp unfolding of pedaled flowers
Reaching for you
I am instead a weed, pickable on
This weary earth, but not especially grant
I am for you, if you’ll have me
I’m for me, when you’re gone
Yes, the Sunday chimes ring out
Preaching their own sad song
But mine is different
I am not the man I could be
I am only a heart beating, two eyes
Blinking, and a smile,
Simple and fine
Rising like a weed

For you

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