If I prefer to skylark
behind my eyelids
in the backwoods of a barren land
where only the sun grazes the earth’s field,
will you blame me if I linger there ?
If I come back
with sharp blunt stones
that the sun had not shed upon
and find me looking at them
once in a while,
will you blame me for wasting my time ?
There are sounds that smoke
through thorny plants
where creatures without wings or legs
I may speak to them and lose myself
and get late to come back to where I left off.
You will think I’m not well
when my words will fall behind
and you will tend to me
with herbs crushed from deep-soiled roots,
but I may suddenly leave again
can you blame me now ?