Small Sorrows

I sit in this meadow at dawn,
the sky is still pink with sleep,
as if the night tried to bleed
into morning and failed.

Every night I promise myself
I will not gather
remnants of future.
But a distant siren
pulls me up right again.

My pink and blue wings
are waterlogged,
flying through an ocean of tears.
I move like a shipwreck
pretending to float.
Picking tiny losses,
soft as milk.

I was built for small sorrows,
yet I do my rounds
with heavy bags
filled with what should have fallen
to apples or candies.

Beds, pillows
mothers' laps
all have been stolen.
So, I place my small blessings
in graveyards.

A piece of ribbon
a shattered balloon
a sweet dream
because someone must insist
magic is stubborn.