The world begins fresh,
To give . . . and to bud anew.
to journey the light.
I’m running from,
you are unkind.
Still sometimes,
a voice in solitude,
A million dollars;
I’d drink from my heart and sky.
All of a peek across the tears.
A bumblebee dives busily in uneven piles
Upon my memory book
And acquire the work; they are my fear.
