Air Mail II

Whenever longing blows within me
and drives my feather heart around
like dry leaves in their autumn dance
I am dashed against my pen
– right now again –
so how can I complain about
just cornflowers
when I paint You some verses to collect
(still-life, life-less)
instead of seeking, asking, knocking at Your door –
and You might actually open!
Oh my!
I really should so much rather stop this and…

July 1995