Sweet lament of moments

Broken petals swirl upon
the water’s frothing edge;
curling into dreams
of paths long forgotten.

Bare feet tamp red clay.
The pines moan their vespers.
Thin fingers reach
toward visions of the past.

Beyond the sky
there are no gallant motions;
only stars held in place
by the wishes of children.

The magic has fled -
sprites swallowed by
disconnected notions;
lost in windy places.

Liberation hovers
with its high promise -
prodding the unwary
into a day without shadows.


© 2003 Melissa Songer