I’ve got the blues picking the sound <br />Of cherry blossoms as they wonder <br />How they will be <br />Pollinated- as there is a ghost hung up <br />In her, <br />As she is coming perpetually down a <br />Hill beside the lake: <br />It seems that she is forever stumbling to <br />Her knees, <br />As the gravestones rise above her, <br />And the airplanes tip their wings: <br />There is nothing mortal that can save her- <br />All the barrettes of flowers in her hair, <br />But as a little boy you can climb up inside <br />Of her and hear her whisper to <br />You of who she really is.<br /><br />Robert Rorabeck<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/of-who-she-really-is/
