Poetic Fury
Don't pull your hair in such a rage
and play havoc with my meadows
where I adore to sow poems.
I don't care about your fury;
I'm afraid you'd crush the words
I had designed only for you;
their ink would stain your pearly hands.
I care too much about your hair
where my poetic meadows rest
and all the charcoal ink I seek.
I care too much about your hands.
There, I have wheat, ivory, and
a sun which shines for me to write.
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