What! So many languages off the cuff
pouring in and out the ear like salt, sand,
with such disparate words for time, hope, love
like lobi, expectation, flower, hand:
Collige, virgo, rosa, ere hands end,
for without them you cannot pluck flowers;
Expansión, says the florist, and stems bend
towards the sun's pointed tongues by the hours:
Space, now space – now that is the place for growth,
and let the light waft in as your mind blows
itself into submission; a sharp tooth
pokes in the back of the mouth, like bad prose:
May these rhymes serve as wisdom, as ism;
This flow refracts as light through a prism.
urbansonnets 