I wonder at times when every summer begins
To deflate and I nomadically withdraw to
Quiet caverns: how long?
Will next spring still exhilarate me?
I have crossed many calendars and puppeted myself
Across many stages,
Caliberating my performances
Less than the “peoples choice awards.”
“how long?’ seems so unending
like an un-thwarted migraine.
Still, every spring,
I pull out my shears and
Fasten a daisy to my meditations of another winter.
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