StarTheif

Struggling plum blossom, neck bent Under the cruel weight of the sun, Bless each slight breeze that brushes Your peevish cheek, movements which barely Sway the branches of the trees, but dent These walls within me; strong fingers spun, Shuttled, and weaved between two touches Of this instrument: these clumps of wheat-like Weeds—pushing through cracks in the cement, Uncertain stems and hairy leaves caught In uncomfortable grace—these are me, blushes Of glassy purple heads in the subtle wind. I who was near your heart, lose beauty in a dry voice... a whistling choir whispering their flute, white song for my weary a