The White Oleander

Moving from one person to another
One of them will know me
They’ll feel my music
They’ll see my pictures
They’ll read my words
They’ll hear my voice

I don’t know what the point is
I don’t know where this goes
The start of the beginning?
The start of the end?
Flowers that grow in my mind
I never have in my hand

When it’s cold and I can’t move
I only put words together
Like a frame around emptiness
Nothing inside, I can see through, then
you say something, that paints the space
I hope those fragments are real.

RR 2009