I think I need an explorer,
eager and keen, to know
the depths of my mind,
secret caves and stony brooks,
where my soul resides.
I wish to find for myself,
the hidden me, I so want to know.
But I need a midwife,
to give birth to such discoveries.
These secrets are volatile,
like the wind playing on blades of grass.
I'm looking for a patient listener,
who will wait for the stories to play,
against the yellow-red flowers,
and then spread in their sweet perfume.
It is exhausting, this search,
under the clear, cool moon,
and by the tricking brook.
I'm singing songs of
an alien stupor.