It is not what it seems
It is all for art
Art in the form of words
Painted for your viewing
Take what you want
Discard the rest
Each will have their own view
The meaning is up to you
I am just the vessel
Secrets are not revealed
Fantasies to make you feel
That is what art is for
How do I write now?
The change pile piling high
Do I climb?
Or dig a tunnel?
Picnic days in distant memory
If only a decent patch left to sit on
I’d bring sandwiches, pickles and plastic flutes
Caressing plants in the garden
Touching pea pods to my lips
Breathe roses in the wild
Speak rain drops to me
I will listen
Heart hands have holes
For the eyes
But not the ears
Reach them high
And the wind blows through
Hold them close
And feel the thumping
Lock your thumbs in mine