Sometimes I Would That I Could Write About Flowers

Sometimes I would
That I could
Write about flowers,
Yet the night
Hours slowly pass
And my thought
Runs on lass
And ought?

‘Tis strange how interpretations differ.
Some will
Read a poem “as is”,
But what is “as is?”

When all is still
At night
The poet may
Stay away
And write
A verse
Or, with a curse
Taste the apple of Eve
Although he does know
That he should leave
The fruit, once sweet
Untasted, he will eat.

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