Like warm weather
In winter,
You stole.
One blossom
Burst
And strangled-
You tangled seasons,
Circling
A single brown hope
That stretched
To grasp this
Pink
Soft
Star.
Hope forgot its own
Smooth skin
To brush
The jar of promise
Sweating dew,
Hope danced
With the wind,
Twirling its treasure
Too soon,
But its thin arm
Never let go-
This flower
Fell for you.
I’ve made a wish in Spanish,
On a star,
With birthday candle breath.
I thought a lot in yoga,
in the shower,
climbing steps.
Now I’m sending my sandcastles
out to sea in purple pails.
I hope
the fishermen
will add
my daydreams
to their tales.
memories face the clouds
still velcroed,
unsalted,
stubborn
sunflower seeds
straining higher.
millions of dark eyes
waiting for the hour
their namesake
will appear,
unaware their petals’ flames
are the beauty to be matched.
Our future is colored
Wildflower acoustic,
Fragrantly free.
Drifting seeds and sounds
Blend blue with the sky
Until clouds ripple
Like ocean waves
And the surf sparkles
Between constellations.
We grew parallel
Like fingernails
On the hands of a stranger
From our hometown.
Painted or bitten
On whims,
Scraped across skin
Unfamiliar,
Years have added
No strength or scars,
The future is far
From changing us.
I am old
In a young way,
With wrinkled skin so white
You follow its creamy ups and downs
So closely
That all there is
Is soft and smooth.
I am long gone
But here to stay,
Silent and invisible,
Just hollow enough
For you to hear
The echoes.
I am
Inborn,
Unborn,
Reborn.
I am
Your
First
Wish.
When I thought growing up meant
My own pair of chocolate icing eyes
And Princess Jasmine hair,
When I believed adolescence was simply
A merging of freckles
Into a nice, golden tan,
When career just meant
A fun, dressy
Daytime distraction,
When teenage years
Were like blurry heat waves
In the distance on the road.
You smile
As you rip calendars
With your teeth,
Wanting
Summer to come soon,
Hopefully
This semester won’t take long,
Maybe
We won’t feel tomorrow.
The way your earrings dance
When you cock your head
Says cheerful small talk
Is your specialty.
But I hear death’s
Hollow shouts
Echoing in each drop of
Honey that slides
Down the sides
Of your mouth
And sticks
To the day planner
You clutch on your desk.
The
Simplest little
Light conversations
Become constellations
Whose symmetry map out destiny
Until one by one stars dim into darkness,
Sending the hopeful astrologer
Smashing her telescope
Into dark jagged
Patterns on the
Ground.
jacsprat 