I quickly spy her graceful silhouette,
Why does the dove so mournfully cry?
I’d gladly lift her weight of regret,
If she would promise me then to fly.
How is it the many petals of a rose
Nestle themselves perfectly in line?
No sweeter fragrance graced my nose,
Nor palette, privy to finer wine.
Clouds float effortlessly in vast sea of blue,
Do they ever reach the end of the sky?
Stacked up neatly, folded too, a magnificent view,
And all the more reason to fly.
A star streaks past in a fiery farewell.
Who chooses which wish shall be granted?
Perhaps we could ask the one that fell,
If not in a grave, so violently planted.
Limbs arc to the earth, a green showery show,
For whom do the willows constantly weep?
I listen at night, the tears continually flow,
Rhythmically lulling themselves to sleep.
Questions beget questions, answers to nary a one
No more secrets revealed at the end of verse,
Then when I had first begun.
Mysteries of such proportion; surely divine
Fodder for restless minds; purely design