Wednesday, January 7, 2009

Eve and the Empty Page

I stand,
The words swooping and swirling;
Butterflies unable to settle on a single flower.

It’s too much;
Don’t make me choose,
I’m not ready to commit,
Too vulnerable,
Breathless with the sheer exuberance of blooming joy.

Is that a pen?
Let it drip beads of water,
Not ink;
It’s too soon to verbalize,
To categorize such unabashed abundance…

Tell me that wasn’t an apple.
I didn’t really want to know;
It was all a mistake --
It’s not my fault –

Don't make me leave
This paradise of indecision.

* * *

No comments: