What colour shall I paint my sky?
Soft-pink and grey:
clouds of spun sugar,
sweet dreams that drift me to life?
Bring me a cool breath of clarity.
Bring me a little light,
and I will shine it, wherever I may go.
Though the roads may crumble
and darken
and fade,
I will have my little light.
I will have my sweet dreamy sky.
I am the the trees and the wind.
Two melted into one:
Body and soul
travelling the pink lace road
of heaven on earth.
Her flight
was sweet.
And every bit as magical
as the hummingbird
sipping honeysuckle
beside her.
Shall I sing to you only of sun shiny days?
I cannot.
The clouds are grey over the meadow
and the rain falls fat and cold
upon the emerald green.
I will not tell you the sun is shining.
It is not.
The day is grey.
It is grey, and it is beautiful.
So incredibly beautiful, you see.
If I were a forest,
there would be afternoon sun
slicing through my trees.
And little white rabbits
would hop along the way
between the daisies
and the rushing river
and I would know
this was the sweetest day.
If I were a forest,
I would be home.
For me.
And for all the lovely things.
I breathe
but I can’t feel you.
I soften but creation does not flow.
Am I stuck?
Or do I just think
I am stuck
because I am not flying
through raw wisps of forestland?
It is my choice to be there,
drifting in the emerald sweet.
Where I am meant to be.
Where I will always be in my mind.
And my heart.
She sat upon the third star from the moon
and watched as the Moon Keeper
lit the brightest night light
of them all.
They used to meet in the meadow and gather lavender.
How sweet it was to raise their faces and breathe.
How sweet it was, just to be.
Side by side.
Alive.
I am
the same breath
as my art.
This wind
is the beautiful melody
of every precious moment
we played,
together.
Sweet wind.
Sing me again.
