when I have a song to sing, I put it in the breeze
hoping something or someone might listen
how I long to bring my songs to the trees
they might understand my hopeless visions

when I have a song inside, I let it out with pride
I don't mind if the words are in vain
on wings they glide, and in stars they confide
only they can understand my pain

I painted a butterfly’s wings
because its colors
clashed with my garden

It died,
so did my garden

foul feelings plague my mind today
like a storm in a teapot
visible to some
but only to those few who dare to look into my eyes
through the frosted window
iced over by my arctic heart

C</3