Sign up to our newsletter
I’ve seen those tough as oaks
weep like willows
even the hardest thugs can have tear stained pillows
most can’t see the forest for the trees
A poem in which I am growing.
A poem in which I am a tree,
And I am both appreciated and undervalued.
A poem in which I fear I did not dig into the past,
A plant called loveA plant called hate
I grew them both in my garden.The plant called love was hard work.