Melancholy and reflection are the poet’s friends.They leave and come again.They are the fertile soilThat works its way Between the toes of his imaginationAnd prod and shift the kindling firesOf his unknown, unseen, deeply buried passion.And, in time, with much wrestling, They bring forth the most delicate of flowers,Perfect curves and colorsFor the reader’s pastime hours.But little does the reader know what strivings,And what great waves heave within the soul.At times, the poet wonders if he’s been swallowed,Buried whole. But he wouldn’t have it any other way.For so are flowers madeThat sprout and bloomThen fade away.

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