Oh
for sweetness stranded in ponds and knee high in algae.
I
loved her to the best of abilities and ever linked to stress.
We
crawled an entire life abandoned to pianos. Love
would
shift for darkness two days shy of destruction. It’s
difficult,
even impossible, to salvage explosions. We
redeem
for parts to exchange for metals where a living
room
is retailored. I muse upon a Buddhist piece falling
gently
to wonder of true nature. We avoid
truth to cleave
to
folly afraid to seek therapy. I’m
long beyond to rage for
woes
where a human altered futures; but I drift to speak of
tales
where fortune is a calm hello: un-harassed, well-tempered,
and
free of malice. I dream of this voice to utter, The skies
are pure. Indeed, we
vision for fruits and seeds to savor for
salts
and flavors. Somewhere afar speaks an adult swan. We
listen
for both turmoil and warmth of presence. We trim for
hedges
found in dialogue ever to hopscotch a mirror; but our
swan
pushes fully engrained to gesture with powers. I long for
this
wealth a color to mold art where a soul states it sorely,
You’re in error.
But
more for kites to float a breeze where
cookie
crumbs smear a blouse; and more for paint to smudge
a
canvas where quarters are pitched against a wall; for through
hell
and harvest, love and tears, a swan is jeweled.
