I sat up waiting
for the night to change
with just a blanket of stars
and an imagination.
Some nights are darkness
that never ends
until morning
sprinkles shards of light
through accidental cracks
and warms ivory skin;
a stranger to Spring
like daffodils too close
to the sun, wilted,
on willow days
when the furthest thing
from my mind
was love,
but still,
I dreamt it, lived it in pages,
brown around the edges,
torn, curled up endings
too good to be true.
Moons were always too far away;
too blue to touch
serenading all those stars.
but, he;
he struck a chord
on a backwards day
and the fourth finger answered
what lips couldn’t
in June
when everything was golden
like those daffodils
way back when.
~
day 21 NaPoMo (a poem a day in April)
forget-me-not 