wren

5/22/22

Tantalus in a garden sculpted from laughter and light

A hesitant hand reaches out to trace the sunlit haze, to trace the dripping clouds,  to trace the lines on a butterfly’s wing

Wishes wilt on tall green stems

A golden sword ticks a lazy metronome murmur above my head, each measure a melancholy reverie

Cataloguing catacombs in a hasty scrawl as if to explain, as if to apologize, as if to say “I love you”

A rainstorm left forever unspent, thunder skipping over cracks in the sky