Once upon a lonely time

The moon fell in love with the sun

And so you see they were lovers

Once when they were young

But then they grew apart, you see

though their love burned brighter on

They saw each other each dawn and dusk

One moment but never enough

When the sun pulled her cloak away

And the moon cast her veil on the day

Did their eyes meet yet grimly so

Filled with tired, practiced smiles

And so they played this terrible game

Of chase, and tag

Of cat and mouse

And of whispered I love yous

Until one day they saw their chance

And met in the sky for a kiss

And the world–

It called it an eclipse

I just want to do something significant.  I

want to write something that matters, something

that makes a change for the good, but

I also want to just be me: I want to dream

of wearing silk dresses with skirts perfect for twirling,

and I want to admire the stars without ever learning them.

I want to be a poet wearing rings and short hair, but

I also want hair flying in the wind, finally long enough

for the braid crown I've always wanted to have, and

I'm too scared to ever wear more than two rings at a time.

I want to streak pages with words that carry such weight, yet

I only ever am able to scrawl frivolous verses in messy cursive.

I want my poetry to be perfect rhymes and meter, but

I'm too much of a rambler, or maybe I'm just lazy with

a tendency of forgetting what my poem was supposed to be about,

trailing into whatever stream of glittering blue water I

find running before my eyes, across my screen.

I had a plan for what was going to come after this line, but

I have now forgotten any glimmer of organization.

I think this poem was supposed to be about trying to make a difference.

And I really hope I do one day, and

I really hope there is at least one person whose heart

I have helped to heal; I hope the wildflowers in my own

have scattered their seeds into your hope, and

grown into your own dreams.

there is a language, 

of clear skies and fluffy 

sheep-like clouds 

of tree-whispers 

and shooting stars. 

it is spoken  

in smile-lined faces 

and shining eyes,

old, worn books

and ink-stained fingers.

it does not need an alphabet

nor any characters

for it is written 

in the wind, the stars

and the sea.

it is not a language

to be learned, but

to be remembered.

it asks nothing but

to be listened to.