Waking With the Past

In bubble thought I wrote by words of my round-glassy head and closed my eyes. To my surprise I saw a vintage picture—a cover to a book I’d closed for years. To keep my eye from sprinkling I let the story unfold in silent form for I fear happy-sad haunting from my trunk of tears. tainted and smeared. In retro motion a young-old girl lay content in May... Across sits he. She looks to him and asks if she were a flower, what would she be? "A rose," said he. "A rose, indeed..." His throat pretends to choke and retreats from verse. he flees from words he did not mean to spurt. With one Rose in thought, away she runs, ‘Neathe dandelions flush with green, Under skies too perfect to change motion. clouds so close she reaches and carries with her nothing but the rose He gave her. Only passion runs deep within a flower so bold, only words I know to speak are ones which tell me why we wilt instead of grow? Greeted by summer trees, sounding like trumpets as they dream. Wind pulling back her hair a glance beyond which she sees; A truth in love bound by seeds of faith and passion, understanding and need. side by side each of the us remain quiet as if waiting for the sun to rise. to break free from chains, beneath earth’s skin to spread like butter on the plain before us. Adorned in black sashes and bows, the fair-whether wind utters an untimely tale, serenading the drum cradled in her ear. “Exhale”, I say. Let recollections of days since then, fade away. As days now drip from the silver faucet, which cleanse my hands, soul and feet, I cast reflections out to sea. From the shore of my bubbled head the eldest rose, I spy, yet to die; and The May I mothered deep inside, Flashed brightly, gently and briefly. Never-tattered never-worn just smaller in size. Glassy eyes and goblets of wine, I drink to love and reflections of a man like a month left behind.