Glancing up at one of many windows
in a dream, and she preoccupied—
what was it then that hungered so
to be noticed, what little boy revisits
my mortality, what mother of us all
plants a seed that grows and grows
into the damnedest things, like poetry?
As for love and wisdom, what value
then if not gained first hand?
drycrikjournal 
Wisdom gained first hand is woven in love, isn’t it John? 🙂
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I think so, Jane. Strange little poem just trying to make sense of a dream.
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Very nice
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🙂
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So moving, and true.
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