*I haven't written a poem in a long while as I haven't been sleeping well. Finally, a good night's rest, and I awaken with a few lines in dancing around that cavernous head of mine. I present it here. :)
Beautiful life, this, to be a poet,
or a plumber, or a tree.
Marvelous thing, this, breath.
Who said you wanting to be here
was of any matter to your own delicate glory?
Hush all your whimperings
expressed as rage and shouting.
This crescent moon.
This blade of grass.
This song in the distance.
This is your life.
xx
Erin
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