with patience and practice
with passion and pathos
what would i be without my thoughts?
a rowan tree?
an unborn crocus?
a new leaf bud?
an apple blossom
not quite bursting
like popcorn under fire
with heat comes movement
with mist comes growth
with breath comes living
another day as though i was unveiled
at sunrise
am i making any sense and do i care?
those that comprehend know the answer
