Beloved,
in these verses that I write,
I would like you to find your dream
in the pale, pensive blue sky
that you’re looking at,
thinking and,
feeling each month
approaching fast—
gold is forming
from the sunset’s cast.
As you hear the stubborn
engine’s whine,
you find yourself gliding
across the burnt-orange
sunlit summer expanse…
and you think:
“What a promising year!
How much sun
on the horizon!”
And, perhaps,
when you sigh
and softly close your eye—
nothing else
but your dream,
and what matters, lingers.