To love her was his disease —
It'd kill him if he could not please.
And love serves to perfect its wooed,
Not merely please its object's mood.
To Love Her Was His Disease
Posted
on
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
by
David Gregg
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Filed under poetry
Filed under poetry
Slow Growth
Seeds in dark ground
for downward-pressing warmth
reach
for light unseen, for downward-pressing warmth
reach.
Posted
on
Tuesday, November 03, 2009
by
David Gregg
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Filed under poetry, the tree series
Filed under poetry, the tree series
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