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.