Into Their Hands (+1)

Dreams, like orphaned water lilies,

float across the surface

Ferrying my last token wish,

adrift—this silver pond

The swans make way,

as faith glides freely upon the wind

Carrying my fervent hopes

into this moment, present sent

Their petals weaving in the breeze,

to spin and turn as one

Silhouettes change and soften,

as the mirrored distance calls

Arriving at the far bank,

two children play and laugh together

With pant legs high and feet now wet,

splashing to and fro

Smiling to each other, their laughter

churns a magic torrent

As they reach into its spray,

and take my dream into their hands

(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2017)

Not My Wound

I never wrote so you’d approve,

I wrote what I believe

How you felt as you read those words,

—is not my wound to bleed

(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2017)