Pumpkin flowers

In the inner most of your word and melody, a reading goes, a word quietly tucked away, a moon caught shining. A dead poet writes a letter to a young poet rustling a memory.

A yard is tall springs from a word, its melody. A Rilke of God pontificates to a young poet,in a trial by fire, a catharsis, where a nose blows and its melody is an arbitrary hum in the head.

Write if you must, if your yard overgrows. A vegetable crawls in pumpkins on ground, its flowers are yellow moons on the earth.They are word and melody of a poet’s letters.Their flowers are moons fallen to the earth .


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