Michael Wurster
Stare at the flower's center
in a secret room.
Crack it open,
like you would
a forgotten novel.
Read parts of it,
sadness and sighs
coming from somewhere,
an embrace,
strawberries on your lips.
Is it a sunflower,
or a rose,
any eden we can name.
All stories are about time.
Copyright (c) 2004 by Michael Wurster