When I opened the purple
Petals of the bulb
You opened your eyes
And you saw. Smiled.
When I spoke to you, you recoiled.
When I blew softly at you, the
Purple petals opened fluttered. To you it didn’t
Seem that it mattered.
Your black-toned lashes ought to be cut
And made into the whiskers of a paint brush.
Be made into an instrument that makes immortal art,
Like my doodled fancies. George Keyt.