View From My Window
In June I am Picking Roses
and it is sweltering.
The wind rocks me back and forth in the hammock,
whispers:
Sleep, sleep,
and I wonder if night will ever come.
A door creaks open behind me, fireflies buzz quietly.
The spaceman in the doorway hands me stars to hold up the
moon, because I cannot hold them up by myself.
"Are stars fireflies?" I ask the spaceman.
"No," he says, "they are flowers, growing in an empty universe."
The wind rocks me back and forth in the hammock,
whispers:
Sleep, sleep,
and I wonder if night will ever come.
A door creaks open behind me, fireflies buzz quietly.
The spaceman in the doorway hands me stars to hold up the
moon, because I cannot hold them up by myself.
"Are stars fireflies?" I ask the spaceman.
"No," he says, "they are flowers, growing in an empty universe."
Comment On This Poem ---
In June I am Picking Roses
In June I am Picking Roses
