It all starts at sunrise,
this meandering of thoughts
taking syllables for a stroll
through fields of audacious wildflowers;
and restless dandelions
tossing caution into the day, like clouds
anticipating any sign of a storm.
You cannot reproduce miracles
like the alliteration in a sunrise
or the charm of an oak that’s had its day,
but, you can speak to sentiment
through the lips of a bride;
fourth finger trembling “I do,”
and every letter after falling into place
by the time constellations arrive
because everyone knows
poetry is a foreign language
to all but wanderers
and dreamers who press into the night.
All you left were falling stars and questions;
the flame in my heart, still burning bright
like a light in the window; your empty seat
on the porch swing, my half-hearted smile
in the morning, those weeping willows dancing
with my pain. The skies open, asking for a sign
and then here come the butterflies floating yellow
fluttering all the reasons why you couldn’t stay.
The sky was gold that day
and the birds, those singing cardinals
seemed to stand out
like scattered stars in a black, black sky.
I’ve carried weeping wonders into the world
within the strings of humming harps, smiled
wearing the scars of a warrior,
“the patience of a saint,”
my Grandma always said
behind her veil on Sundays.
I wondered why she cried
when the choir sang,
and now here I am,
reaching for more
more light to fill the void;
to heal my wounds
and his heart.
Aren’t we lucky to have laughter,
singing in the morning
and more than floors to hold us up;
our whispers intermingling
under the covers,
warm vanilla candles at the alter,
and your cologne kissing me goodbye?
Why is it still so difficult
every time we say goodnight;
our eyes telling the story;
in a prayer for each new day?
Let’s never take a moment for granted
or miss one I love you
while we still have four walls
and hearts to hang our hats upon.
Joy trickles softly down cheeks
of those who seek passion;
let it seep into skin
through dreams and visions;
through tingling seasons of trust,
in a language
only he can comprehend;
hands pollinating these Spring flowers
on a sleepless, but bountiful,
journey of hearts.
I once dreamt of palaces with balconies
and floors that sparkled like my earrings,
but I never smiled until I met him, and now
laughter fills every room of this quaint place.
I bite my lip before I speak;
stumble, stammer over words
twist my hair around and ‘round
my finger, dreaming:
Here I am in that white dress
petals falling behind my train
and at the end of the path,
there is you.
Our eyes meet
an instant attraction.
I see my future looking back at me
when you tap me on the shoulder saying
Ma’am, are you ok?