A familiar beckoning from the spilling-over-
the-sidewalk garden. Good morning, wooly woundwort.
How unbelievably soft you are, like a whispered prayer,
like a ready-made poem in the palm of my hand.
Promise me that when I die you’ll be honest
about all of my faults, my foes, my irksome way of leaving
the top unhinged from the honey jar,
the-sidewalk garden. Good morning, wooly woundwort.
How unbelievably soft you are, like a whispered prayer,
like a ready-made poem in the palm of my hand.
Promise me that when I die you’ll be honest
about all of my faults, my foes, my irksome way of leaving
the top unhinged from the honey jar,
my desperate way of loving you.
The garden is so full and generous with "raedy-made" poems for those who look & listen <3
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