It’s not that you don’t love me,
It’s not that I don’t care.
It’s just that poems are something
Transient and rare.
They flow from deep inside me,
Like a warm and kindly breeze
Delicately disturbing cobwebs in
An ancient grove of trees.
But if I try to grab them,
They shift and melt away
Like dew before the sun’s heat,
And dawn’s hues at break of day.