Making Flowers

The Trackless Path

Melancholy and reflection are the poet’s friends.

They leave and come again.

They are the fertile soil

That works its way

Between the toes of his imagination

And prod and shift the kindling fires

Of his unknown, unseen, deeply buried passion.

And, in time, with much wrestling,

They bring forth the most delicate of flowers,

Perfect curves and colors

For the reader’s pastime hours.

But little does the reader know what strivings,

And what great waves heave within the soul.

At times, the poet wonders if he’s been swallowed,

Buried whole. But he wouldn’t have it any other way.

For so are flowers made

That sprout and bloom

Then fade away.