Whatever I think, I say it and mean it.
I wear my heart on the seams of my sleeve.
The coming wind holds my poems and their meanings,
Like smoke, I let it pass over me.

I follow every laughter, every melancholy feeling.
I tread every road that I ever see.
To be alive is to bear the searing
Fiery breath of what caused us to be.

I, that hold the cold of summer leaving,
Can only sense that I hold my poetry—
That which I hope has sailed with the weary,
That which I dread always follows me.