Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

the wind whistles
through the window screens
the grass bends where
the wind touches
and wild yellow flowers open
the call of a crow gets woven in
and the man with one ear
plays with his words

My friend, Vincent, comes to mind. i like your poetry. this poem especially.

like yours too - can't say the day is not coming when some doctor will commence to piling up the pills on us until we just disappear beneath them so we better make it happen, and that right well, while we can.