Outside Poemland
Outside Poemland
where the air is cold,
the trees are trees and
the words are words.
Inside Poemland
where the air is warm,
trees are the fruits
of the Botanical God’s,
cast down to earth
as sentries to guard
the meadows and
adorn the hills.
Words are words
painted in dazzling colors,
flowing out of the heart,
taking to the sky and
skirting around the facts,
not quite landing,
but teasing the intellect
into thinking that
they have to land
even though they won’t.
Take me to Poemland
and let me ride
with the words.
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