Immy

Late at night in the cover of darkness,
the young woman cries in her sleep.
She cries for the baby bird with the broken wings
who she buried early that morning.
She cries for her homeland,

deep gashes
carved 
into peeling bark.
words.
no.
letters.
a story?
of sorts.
or just
lines.
framed
by a heart.

lily pads floating in the streams

of my salty tears flowing

down my cheeks and into puddles

where frogs stretch their legs

and daisies start blooming

for your butterfly kisses

which dry up the brooks

i thought i saw you on the news the other day
my heart skipped a beat
when the headline described
forest fires
burning through the countryside
but it wasn’t you
because
i knew you were safe

i went home the other day

at the end of every book
there’s a door
which
should you choose to enter
will take you 
to distant ports
and pirate ships
or golden temples
with marble gods
where chapters will enchant you
and pages

orange blossom
racing thoughts of you
are all that fill my mind
none other could be so sweet