: Red :

They called you a poet.
They couldn't be more wrong,
I thought,
From the cover of your book
Where you sat hunched;
Gold watch shining;
Your hair coloured only by
Sunlight
And age;
Your small eyes beneath dusty brows
More than half-closed,
More than half-asleep,
Or is it half awake?
Your lips
Undecided-
Curling up or curling down.
They called you a poet,
And just to be sure

I came in silence
To view your words;
I came in ready to receive.
And found myself
Gathering your thoughts like wildflowers.
There's a small garden
In the southwest corner of my heart
Where the seeds of your Sunday stories
Are just beginning to bloom.