A wounded Earth,
or a wounded soul,
the blood still runs.
All the way down
to the root of the tongue.
Even though all the
autumn leafs have fallen.
A wild garden still
becomes my home.
And the butterflies
come one-by-one.
Beneath a single moon
A Wandering Poet
As I walk around I like to record what I experience. Through poetry, ideas and thoughts I hope I can share some of these experiences with you.
A Wandering Poet 