Then
since the beginning of everything--
the minute, the second, the clocks runs.
history sits down, ink and quill in its hands
transcribing the events of daily life.
Spring
Looking above at the movement,
finding the hidden in the shape of clouds,
imagination and fantasy form out of stories
as I try to reach the sky.
I’m the character of my choice.
Summer
The honey sun glow warms my skin as
I devour the
sweetness of the strawberries.
Fall
Within a blink of an eye, the leaves
Switch their coats for something a little more
Magical.
Winter
Watching the dance of Sugar Plum Fairy, but
the real performance was in our living room
Sitting on the piano bench belting out
Our duets.
Glitter falls around us.
In Between
Voices and images and scents become
a distant, fuzzy mess,
the way someone looks when their eyes are close
to mine.
Pixels of pixie dust.
Forgotten memories have turned into silent, black and white film.
Maybe
The clocks mourn the loss,
making the lost, worthy of being a memory,
even if it is only an incomplete one.
But in my unconscious state, I hear the scribbling
and witness the ink running across the page—
married letters form the voices and images and scents
that I once thought had flown away with the clouds.
Now
And I write.