Press In

It all starts at sunrise,
this meandering of thoughts
taking syllables for a stroll
through fields of audacious wildflowers;
wind-blown tumbleweeds
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.

~

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