Spring unchoked

But mostly, I desired a change in season.

So here's a breath of tulip petals strewn across the path.

Then, in a circle, I plant white hydrangeas.

Here, I gently shake pink cherry blossoms.

Now this. Where I can breathe the fresh giddy fragrance of Spring.

Into a scrunched up laughter, which will tickle my face pink.

This.Is the bed I shall now lie in.

The white gold prayer

Blow!
Gentle wind
Upon the right side
Lay a feather
on the hand you touch
Kiss the softness
of the full cheek
Lay a calm
Oh Gentle wind!
Upon the right side

Here
Let me swallow
all that brings
swirls of violence
I stand
With wide open arms
embracing the agitated winds
Be gentle wind
Oh be gentle!
Upon the right side

Here
I hold you tense
But there?
Keep your promise
Usher in tranquil
Deliver my prayers
in the breath
of your infant
Softly coo Gentle wind
Upon the right side

The sidewalk artist

She leapt one day into my path.

It was an autumn month, the chill was hard to bear. I asked her not to hurt me.

The chill was already perched on my toes and was flying in circles ready to nest there for the season. In haste, thus, I said "Whatever you want, take". And she did.

She came in a canvas of creamy white and flowing tresses. A dreamy mist that jumped into my shadow.

I'd tell the artist, whose treasured picture she jumped out of, put her away. Take her out of me. She's risen upto my neck holding it in a half nelson.

He looked sternly. Talking of one's masterpiece in a manner, like so? How dare I!

So she innocently follows me through the artist's present for me. I laugh and play with her dark cloud upon where I stand.

Oh what shame!

The artist didn't paint me.
His fine fingers to adorn his canvas with me. His long lashes for my face to sit in.

Oh the horror!

The artist didn't paint me. But he hung her upon my wall.
The angel that mocks. Her halo so golden.
Which he hung upon my wall.

"Such childishness!", you'd say.
For wasn't it you who sought him at the Art Fair? Wasn't it you who asked only for his best?
Lo behold!
His masterpiece you now hold.

"Such deception!", you'd cry.
For wasn't it you who gave her anything she'd want? In the dark alley where she'd been silent of her want ?
And thus!
She took what you gave.

In my shadow I live.
That was mugged one fine autumn day. When she soaked herself in my warm coat from Dusk.

So in my shadow I live.
Half of which.
Now isn't me.

Right kind of wrong

How old am I ?

There's a song heavy with a voice laden with nostalgia.

Like honey, it flows slowly off my tongue. It's sticky, hard to roll off, and swallow but sweet. So I let it sit on the back of my throat slowly dissolving its saccharine down my mouth.

Guess.

Funny how much it means now. This pattern, I live.

But it was a song when I was 16. Whispered to me in my dreams. And it follows me through like my unshakeable shadow.

3,2,1.

My shadow. Heavy, laden with memories. Songs, hallmark cards and a midnight blue dress.

So much to choose from to remember with this song. 365 days ending with a new year. Life sorted by crisp, brown paper wrapped new textbooks.

I won't put on the dress, the cards were thrown and the songs deleted.

Time's up.

The soft crystals of snow coated with frozen water. See how the day melted it into a shiny silk of ice.

The icicles that shiver at the wind's light caresses. This crispy night like a new page turned over. Which shall find us.

Solitary.

Come. Let's take our places.
In my cream chiffon knee length delight. In your silent black veil.

Will you look at me and sing? With your voice breezing over the sheets of pure water?

Would you slide your arms around my waist and breathe the poem you wrote for me?

Would you look at the delicate ice caves arching in their fluid beauty? From where the night shall glow in a transparent glaze of sparkle?

And pull me into your arms to a dance where our pride and ego shall claim victory?

But look.

Tis a been a night only in thought. For there comes the bright blazing ball.

Like a smooth silver magnesium ribbon meets air, so does my ice palace meet.

Tiny puddles of where princesses had once day dreamed.

For such are snowcastles in the day.