Wednesday, January 25, 2017

Greenhorn

I'm green and fresh and vegetable.
I've grown but still am, never done.

Don't expect me to know what the tree knows,
don't expect me to understand how she's felt.

When I've yet to bloom my first flower,
And still shine with the chlorophyll sheen.

Don't ask me to know where the wind goes,
don't ask me to tell what he's seen.

I've yet to be withered by winter, 
my stem's yet to bistre and thicken.

Do not hope I should have known,
like I should not have hoped I hoped.

Lapine, non.

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