When I catch sight of your appealing head,
That’s wreathed by shiny, useless, laurel leaves,
I hear your flute along the riverbed,
And know you’re playing for the rocks and trees.
And now that you’ve achieved a little fame,
I shouldn’t try to cast a slur on you.
Most high and mighty one, I call your name
On many sleepless nights and mornings, too.
O how I wish your love would flow toward me,
Instead of being drawn to pipes and reeds!
If only you would come and bring a gift –
One fresh, red rose will do. Your apathy
Toward all my overtures is like a scythe
That’s mowing down the flowers with the weeds.
© 2000 Alice Park