if we cut all flowers
would others one day bloom,
or would future springs
remain desolate?
it’s easy to reason that scissors
are to blame rather than a hand
holding them still, or a mind
which wields cold steel —
and so willingly, too.
(mostly) short poems on life and love
writer, dreamer, lover, seeker. labels never reach the heart of any matter, but they might be a place to start...