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)