Midsummer now and I can say with certainty,
it's the nettles I'll miss most, my winter birthday
(yes, swelling apples weighing down a tree)
and little-winged enigma-varieties,
pestiferous or not, god-heading me.
But of you? That's odd too, when you know
only the left-handed wish can come true.
I am forgetting what I ever knew -
it might be the kindest thing to do -
and I've heard it said some loves do so.
YOU ARE READING
Keep The Home Fires Burning
PoetryA poetry Collection. Now Lunk has taken to his bed, swearing not to write one more word about C, and muttering 'bloody garden', it behoves (Love that word, don't you?) me (and Anima) to fill out his shoes, with soil and flower seed. So we will be 'e...
