For you,
A little golden poem.
Not gripped in tragedy
love
but like a kiss,
at least I hope
should it touch your mouth
like a little golden bee
to unwind in you what needs to be open
The things I hope.
For you
are like castles.
IMMENSE and open,
burgeoning in Spanish courtyards
singing
Que Sera, Sera!
There,
I hope
You find a place to connect constellations
and listen to sleeping children.
that your laughter remains
simple,unpretentious
like a kiss!
In that way, should it touch your lips
like a little golden bee,
gently beating
its little wings
you pollinate the world.
-----------------------------
The more I try to overlook you, the more pieces of you I find.
For instance,
Pictures, tucked away in forgotten books.
Berets and the myriad trappings you used for beauty, (that really my darling, you never really needed.)
The long sinews of black hair that still attend to the porcelain and towels while you have been away
and the smell of orchards, that you grew in your sleep still stir my sheets and linen, bringing them to life.
Even after all this time.
I wonder what you are doing.
If boys and summer are alive on your windowsill,
offering open hands and doves.
I wonder how much longer I will wait upstairs.
Anxiously listening for the clamor of your arrival, knowing that behind it, is the soft phonic of your voice,
come to paint my room azure and fill the pocket of my chest.
I wonder these things
I wonder these things and miss you
dedicated to my muse.
- to my anonymous craigslist poet who breaks my heart with each beautiful word.
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