Ninety-Nine Words

The clouds were a smoky gray;
black birds swirling in an arch
‘round a shrouded sun.

There were not enough syllables
to spell out the intensity-
the rapturous love ascending
wrapped across wooden planks
and released like doves;
a book in untainted air
on weeping willow Sundays,

but, now we see the falling away;
the cuddling masses birthing idols,
taming wonders
with coincidence,
logical explanations,

and a bed of roses
without thorns.

I can see the light from here;
his doting eyes turning the page
to another January,

releasing a thousand fireflies
with the hope of a single spark.



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