A Poem

It is not normal, a woman says

Never has been, another said

Ordinary, the men women make

In parks, corners of street, rhyme Daily,

I shut the window I pass messages by

The so-called tender seed of birch blows quietly by

It will be crushed in the office of living

and still may take root So crush

what is given The tender too carry guns

Do not forgive the too forgiven