“These are a different type of ‘love poems’.
They are exciting and honest, and they will blow your mind!”
“You will be thrilled by Patricia Lee Sharpe’s fast-paced and moving verse. This is a great little book.”
–Leah Maines, author of Beyond the River
With all this coming and going, love, I begin to feel like a little plastic bird clamped on the rim of an empty glass bobbing up an down on my own little spring upanddown upanddown my red plastic beak going upanddown upanddown pecking up and down and up and d o w n .
Reaching a wide open meadow, a small animal stopped. She looked in all directions. There weren’t any signposts or well-worn paths to tell her, “This is the way, safe and right, for you.” The animal looked up. The sun hurt her eyes and made her cringe. On a bright warm day, without a cloud in the sky, without the least whisper of a breeze, she shivered. She looked about and saw a hole, a place to be secure. She scurried, she scampered, she scuttled for it, as if something huge and hungry were right on her tail. And so she ate the weeds of necessity. She ate thistles and prickles and thorns and never suffered from a shortage of nettles. “There’s much to be said for nettles,” she thought. But often she would lie at the mouth of the burrow and look out at the meadow and look up at the sky and look and look and look.