Goldenrose

A penny from a young girl with pigtails and a toothy grin, a dime from a poet in a baseball cap, and a quarter from an elderly lady on her morning stroll.

We were rising.

With every thread tied together, by those who wanted to catch hold —

Those with knotted breath and clasped hands 

Weaving together a dream, cast out into a sea of stars —

Child, your future is best left unspoiled, so I may be too vague, or not vague enough. Don’t be afraid of  the contents within this letter . . .

If to be a sonnet is to be vain, then to be a sonnet is to be a friend. 

If to be a limerick is to be laughed at, then to be a limerick is to be a child. 

We've built the beautiful places 

through disaster and heartbreak  

and luck and romance. 

From the roots up, we've rocked the rocks,   

and moved the Earth.