Things

Things are often repetitions,
happy encounters
glory of the stars.
Sometimes the roses rising from the ashes,
larger than life moments,
the poet's endless creative moments.
The child's curiosity, it lives inside of me,
it's the same feature was also pre-father.

Loneliness in the midst of spring from
words as the spring-flooded creek.
I will let my words out, and they
scream spring purgatory.
The ram clearing frenzy, towards spring,
willow trees, thickets.

I'm not old master, but
brave new words workmen.
I am a lousy witness natural
destruction after centuries.
What do I do ozone loss,
space on the altar?
Nothing, I move just nervously
goods in one box to another.
How can I give up, and what not?