An Impressionist's Garden
Poem By gregory collins
Now i think
we are all made
to be freed, not free,
and i was thoughtfully put in my shoes,
and now you obviously cannot understand
without saying a word in another world.
That there are holes in the middle of the night,
and i try to fill them in with color
like an Impressionist's garden.
But premonitions are strung together,
and all i want to do now
is use one of my long mud brown hairs as a dragline,
and sail off to the midpoint of the soul's breeze.