I give up. You're all too good for me. I will never be enough, or I am overflowing.


The air is filled with wisteria and foxgloves,
blossoming sweet dust upon eyelids
opiate-heavy and laden with restfulness
opal-eyed does with armfuls of flowers

Kissing baby moss-covered hills
and earth smelling thickly of lovely
touches soft and plentiful dusk and dawn
falling moons and stars like sunbeams

P.S. Is there really such a thing as too soon?