Does it matter?

Is it important for you that flowers flourish

in random, so that

sun spreads fire in your silk skin

So softly that the wind

make tender curls in your hair

So tenderly

That some lost woman open her heart to the deep earth and 

Pull out gold, sand, love, living imagery?

I regret to say that used to be me, 

now buried in sadness in the most dry sand mill

Will you take some pain over my hair, I just have this waven hand to report alive

To the other lost people finding his path to surface where we can flee high