An engagement of vocabulary
rolling sweetly off of tongues;
syllables coupled in undertones,
gently timed like a ballerina’s steps,
ethereal pieces sewn into cadence
sipped and soaked into every pore
of some poet’s mere existence.
If not for flowers, where would we find art
flowing like tumbleweeds across barren plains
shaky adjectives reverberating from willows
into the very beat of a breaking heart
just aching for the revelation
of another perfect sunrise-
another misty eyed ocean to paint.
There is no time for sleeping
with trains to remind her of those last days
when he still had warm hands and dreams
of one more walk in the sand, dance of hair
on autumn nights when moons were full
and treetops were the highest thing he could see.
She smiled when one lone star fell;
fireflies circling in a collective whisper, goodbye.