It’s March
when willows green yellow
and casual grace throws white
round naked branches
when almost is a yearning earth
of never quite forgotten
urgent hugely returning
delicate surge
of pulses quickening
almost
<>
waiting and aching
knowing
how brief the blaze
of almost
must be
Hi Gis, love the illusive simplicity of your poetry with the underlying mind blocks of humanity intent on its own self destruction. The depth you have aspired to is unbelievably gut wrenching as you soar above the future possible by shedding the mantle of self ego and material baggage. The White Kudu, as yet unread, will reset the wonders of self of achievement not being the oscars but the small humanities gestures of nbeing a human being, i think.
A long,long journey from SADS and RAPS.