Au Petit MatinWhat is it that an espresso at 3 am can cure?Is it the rejuvenation we desire?Or is it the time away; a quick car ride to the local brewAnd a dimly-lit moment to rethink the fight?Or to rethink why you let your kids have that one more cookieAnd only an hour ago, you put them to bed.Or maybe, for the many who don't actually like coffee,It is an excuse to use up gas, even in this economy,And waste time with a wake up.I should be sleeping.Though I don't know what it is that makes buying a coffee at 3 am so exciting...Mostly, I think it's because my life hasn'tGone where I wanted it to.Sometimes,I forget how happy I am,How lucky and how fascinating my own life is.And my husband, a few miles away, is sleeping.And I should be sleeping.But at 3 am, after a day of warm weather,The rain took me out to buy an espressoAnd the rain called me back home as soon as the cup was empty.And the rain called me back to bed becauseI should be sleeping.
Come In, DrinkBienvenu chez moi..My lofty, grey house..Well make yourself at home. (buzz)The life of my whistle has outlasted yours by ten,Or twenty, seeing as it is July.But do please sit, and take some tea.You are welcome to these things.. (buzz)Bienvenu, deja, deja!Look out overThe balcony. (buzz)My smile is for the sunset, I promise.Frightened of the weather?Stay here the night. (buzz)Take some more tea. (buzz)Are you tired now? Yet? (buzz)I think anyone would be tired, after your long journey and all..Not tired? (buzz)Not one bit? (buzz)I am calm, pet, I promise..It was a shame, good sir, to let you lie on my floor.You took ill quick to my sting...Anyway,Welcome to my home.
Livre de BotaniqueDry cracked and silent,Stuccoed to one plane of white;With a centre of gold, it folds into an origami tragedy.One limb right, one up, one somewhere on another page.One pressed sleeve over a stalk,Joined forever in a paused decay.If someone would find that one little piece,The little violet piece...Well then it would be whole.But in paper, the water has gone elsewhere,The sugar to some other island,And the colour into the sun;Bleached by the heat to resemble tissue.And over a far rainbow of hope, from an empty book of jet black,It longs to throw its face to warmth,Its hearts to a vase,And its claws to the depth of life.For now and ever; no light, no love.One stained pageAnd a flowerCut from its bed.
Tired, YesJagged? Sure.But there is no reason to leave it alone.Unruly? Of course,Is that not the way it should be?When I picked it up, at first with my mind, then with my hand,It was almost too small,But I saw that it grew large before my eyes.Impossible? No, no.So there is no cause for alarm.Inspiring? Yes, I should think,Though something as earthy as this might not be considered as such.One should find it peculiar;Treasuring a puzzle's piece.Pretty? Oddly enough.Be wary, though, for not all 'bouts will it fit.Picky? If you areThat easy, I guess. But for no one to seeShall it be for most often, because who may come to try it onMay be so far as I know, unthinking.Worthy? Peut-etre.See where it curves? Indeed.And where it collapses discretely? I do, I do.Well there are so many like this yet so fewThat represent anything close.So for whatever reason it has now become to you,Set it aside, lest you be swollenTo figure it out.