I read
but don't read.
I laugh
but don't laugh.
I see
without ever seeing.
I write
and my hand blossoms.
Never do I taste a spicy flavor of it.
Instead, it tears flowingly into spring
only rings dully
(to defy winter)
and then curls into an aroma saccharinely un-me.
The taste lacks one thing;
Don't just tell me the green and wood is beautiful.
Tell me what it means.
Delilah Miller
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-fruits-of-writing/
