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.
~
forget-me-not 