In my small garden,
I grow thousands of proses,
I love every kind.
Thorny, smooth, dark, bright,
Their turns of phrase glare clear strength,
Proses are roses.
Yet when the fire,
Burns me up from the inside,
Leaving my prose dead…
Something else rises,
Rhymes and haiku, purple strength,
I write what I loathe.
Poetry is flames,
Yet much I can only say,
By burning roses.
