Your swing,
found in summer dreams,
softly finding momentum,
fluttering as butterfly breezes
against sunny palms of open hands;
Your flowers,
growing in summer days,
tentatively reaching,
in togetherness finding the sunlight
reaching up with all fears lost;
Your garden,
filled with swings and butterflies,
full of flowers and sun,
you visit again and again
the sanctuary you found.
Somnambulant whispers
Breathless, forgetting their names
Following the fleeing light,
Down into the heart of folded hands,
Sinking into weightless silence,
Melting into the ground;
A layer of gold in the dust
Settled but rapidly blinking,
The glimmer of presence,
Nameless yet vivid ideas
Your golden hair spans sky and fire,
sets the sun aflame
– the tree of oblivion,
seed, root, and husk
burning in voluble pages,
words growing from ashen folds
taking wing from sprigs in fiery sparks,
the words on fire spread across the sky;
you forgot what they say,
but yet you burn them into all you see
to recall, to remind, to burn brightly
and at night you warm the stars,
those silvery sparks,
and together you weave stories
in which the fire never dies.
starfishskies 