Nothing happens... but first a dream.
I take you and pile high the memories. Death will break her claws on some I keep.
In the night the cabbages catch at the moon, the leaves drip silver, the rows of cabbages are a series of little silver waterfalls in the moon.
Sometime they'll give a war and nobody will come.
Poetry is the silence and speech between a wet struggling root of a flower and a sunlit blossom of that flower.
I tell you the past is a bucket of ashes, so live not in your yesterdays, no just for tomorrow, but in the here and now. Keep moving and forget the post mortems; and remember, no one can get the jump on the future.