I stand,Astonished,
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…
Please,
No,
Tell me that wasn’t an apple.
I didn’t really want to know;
It was all a mistake --
It’s not my fault –
Please,
Don't make me leave
This paradise of indecision.
* * *
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