adventures in dysthymia

Tuesday, September 13, 2005

Seeds

I have saved your every word;
kept each for planting in my fields.

Now, they lie fallow; these seeds will sleep.
But in its season, all that passed

between us will be trained upon
an arbor framed of verse, a vine

gravid with our ripened fruit.
I will bottle you like wine.

Stephen Brooke ©2005

Post a Comment