The old priest considered the cast-iron oil pot sitting in the corner of the immaculate kitchen. It was heavy, and his back hurt.
The trees growing on the canyon walls whispered to him. "Prepare
...
[+]
My face is full of flowers;
Given or gathered, who knows?
Whichever the scenario,
They seem to make the world, my world—glow.
Colors popping like fireworks up close:
Pink, purple, red, orange, blue, green, and yellow too
Make my vision fuzzy as if
I was staring through glasses made of fluffy cotton balls.
What a view.
If only creatures knew the beauty of these glasses;
The way they revive the mind is magical
From their clearly unclear sights
And their perverse windows of clarity between the stems.
Planted, picked, born, reborn, every day,
No matter the season,
It's funny how through their fuzziness,
I still get to see.
Given or gathered, who knows?
Whichever the scenario,
They seem to make the world, my world—glow.
Colors popping like fireworks up close:
Pink, purple, red, orange, blue, green, and yellow too
Make my vision fuzzy as if
I was staring through glasses made of fluffy cotton balls.
What a view.
If only creatures knew the beauty of these glasses;
The way they revive the mind is magical
From their clearly unclear sights
And their perverse windows of clarity between the stems.
Planted, picked, born, reborn, every day,
No matter the season,
It's funny how through their fuzziness,
I still get to see.