This Poem Does Not Speak of Old Lovers
This Poem Does Not Speak of Old Lovers
It speaks of a time
when I stood upright,
eyes glossy, hair wild and
free, crossing through wetbanks and
swallowing swamps, just for a taste
of the river.
It speaks of a time
when I crossed unsuspecting valleys
and weeping fields, alone and naked,
just to smell a single flower.
It speaks of a time
when I let the scent linger loosely
in my nose, coursing through my body
as if it were a drug of some sort, and
letting it go.