And the commas are gone.
Thought-Blossoms
To say that I think too much
Would grossly understate
The nature of my problem-
Just as to say that a tree merely flowers
Would be to lessen the beauty
Of buds erupting from dead branches
Like Christ resurrected.
That is not to imply that my thoughts
Are beautiful; they seep under my skin
Like a suit of tar,
And while there may be glimpses
Of light amidst the glutinous liquid,
It is a reflection of beauty that dazzles the eye
Rather than a thing of beauty itself.
Instead I confess that my thoughts subsist
In as much profusion as those apple-blossoms
Frequenting an orchard in springtime;
But like the petals of a wilting flower,
They are gone
Before I have time to do more than
Mark the passing of their existence-
For my thoughts are no more tangible
Than the presence
Of a season.
