To the Minimalist poet
When I was young
And drank the world in
Minute by minute,
And sometimes for hours,
would gaze at a flower
patiently watch it
present itself to the world
it didn't seem to matter
what others called it
maybe because
I was so alone then
And had no one to share
The experiences with
Except for the flower
Itself
And now, I read your words
And wonder
What does that hollyhock look like?
23.8.05
