Young wounds need constant attention
Unaware the heat of light years
Searing memory in thick streams of tears
Spills across quivering lips, a chin’s tilt drops
Low hanging tears slide letting go
A quiver onto the chest, breathing out

Breathing into the old and raw
A cotton purple dress pacing beneath a wide limbed maple
Pacing deep in hope not dusting off, the dry ground settling on my patent leather shoes
Deepening hopes of being the spigot for water streaming from
my elbow
Be my elbow, pick me, loud whispers echo inside

A deep magic moment floating me to stage, lost me well beyond the maple’s reach

Not considering my prettiest dress of purple, nor aping earnest hand raising
Cruelly, the time to choose the elbow for streaming water took a flash for the clown
Not hearing my screaming inside whispers to pick me!
I became dull to magic moments
Capture and carry me not, the magician became my dusty
ground

Light years in becoming magical
There is a pachysandra bed growing tall and lush
Warm and green grow thick beneath the wide limbed tree
The warm wrap reaching round the roots, grasping with certain strength
I hold to a constant undulating white sheer and pink striped ribbon
Floating to stage, while flowing out of view carrying me with it if I wish contentment