Poetry Sam

Grey, drooping-shouldered bushes scrape the edges Of bending swirls of yellow-white flowers. So do my thoughts meet the wind-scattered color of you. A green-shadowed trance of water Is splintered to little, white tasseled awakenings By the beat of long, black oars. So do my thoughts enter yours. Split, brown-blue clouds press into each other Over hills dressed in mute, clinging haze. So do my thoughts slowly form Over the draped mystery of you.