watterson

seedlings

Like seeds of doubt, but opposite:
you have planted hopeful blossoms
in my brain. My thoughts shiver
across dry land, at last finding room
to root into, and my arteries
attempt to feed the seeds you have sown.

There's not much sunlight there.
What you're trying to grow
hasn't been harvested in some time.
But for some reason, I cup this whimpering
seed in my hand, and plant it in cortical dirt,
cover it up with my ruminations, and I imagine
it growing fantastic in my mind:

All red orange yellow,
the colors blending like watercolor or dancing
like candle flame or interlaced like held hands.
Spotlighted in spring sunset, the petals soft
and golden like the lingering hum of a kiss,
like blanket out of a dryer or melting cotton candy.
And full, green leaves swaying like the tides,
and shaking like your laughter or waving
in the cool whispers of my heart.

But how easy to upend these shallow-rooted
seedlings. Red orange yellow washed out
by the rain of reality.  

---
apr "12," 2017
i mean, technically it's the 13th, but i haven't gone to sleep yet, so the day's not over. i've been feeling quixotic (look at that slammin' vocab word) lately, and idk if should i apologize for that.