Today, I cut
	The buttercups,
	And as the knife
	Sliced each supple throat,
	They smiled at me.
	I wanted to cry--
	But no tears would flow.
	My soul has forgotten
	The way to go
	To find the well
	Where tears are made.

5/17/81

© Fred O'Bryant. All rights reserved.

Previous Poem Return to poem list. Next Poem