Little does she know,
her father will return in late December.
The last time he has last returned,
it was late spring.
They colored canvases in red and blue,
plucked flowers from their garden,
sang their favorite movie song.
This time, she has woven a sky blue cloth
for her father.
She knows, he wears dark clothes all the time.
Dark never brings joy, says Granny.
She has decided that they would go for a movie,
and then the night would pass with a fairytale
gently rubbing her hands,
her eyes,
memories of her mother, father, and her—
together, woven in the sky blue fabric;
Lilies adorning the yarns;
The bruises that hug her every night will fade away
in the blues of her dreams.
She lives in her longing for him
until one day,
she smelled warm snow
and the familiar call.
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A/N: I'm eager to hear your familiar calls this time. A vote would give you a beautiful flower and a sweet candy, and a review will gift you a box of candies and a bouquet of roses and lilies! :)
YOU ARE READING
the slow art of breathing bitter
Poetryslow dancing love and pain in the midnight chorus of liquor-washed autumn green ... || a constellation of destructive poetry ||
