I planted the tree

and there was a time,

early in its life,

when I thought it

wasn’t going to make it.

The limerick couldn’t continue: “There was a young man from Peoria who wed a young girl named Gloria . . .” No, maybe it should be “name of Gloria.”

The moon abandons the sky.

Stars like tiny knives

shed little light.

Snow starts to fall,

Некуда идти.

А я всего боюсь.

Крыша покрыта обувью.

Моя тень танцует назад.

In the forest of purest things….

Inspiration’s endless progeny.

Poetry’s long hair dangles,

swirls, dizzy from a stream’s

is impervious

to my comfort

as it brings on storms.

It also deceives,

Take the palm of your hand and place it onto mine.

Now hold my hand. Squeeze it.

I'm going to need you to stay right here beside me for this part.