Ida, My - Annuals

Chords, and coins, and restless poems end up slander

When my baby is born there will surely be a lasting shore

Listless birds perch in soft, green herds, tickling the wind

With fall they will sleep with parched, swollen throats, and I’ve done nothing

But, with spring I will propagate their thirst to blinding eyes

Blinding eyes

Planting seeds can’t be the only way, the only way

Planting seeds can’t be the only way out

Planting seeds can’t be the only way to find a simple day, a simpler way