Daffodils growing from the dust,
catching dew
and looking down on tiny daisies–
that’s you,
trying to whisper a message,
trying to shake off
the melting snow.
From my glass,
lemonade spins, with ice cubes
mimicking church bells at vespers.
I taste your nectar,
hoping to take in your tongue,
but seeds get caught
in lost pauses,
sliding like rocks on a river
Unraveling chains of gold,
wrapping my hands in thread,
I turn pastel tissue paper
into twisted roses,
spun like sugar
weaving a scarf.
When the sun turns into amber,
I’ll offer them to you,
ink-stained and crinkled,
to remember that lost spring,
hidden in rhododendron.
And as a sliver of goldenrod
cracks at the star-studded sky,
I will graze your translucent cheeks,
and embrace your smooth skin,
released from jaundice.
Discursive Poetry 