In some circles
The number thirteen is cursed.
Words break that pendant.
Thirteen roses wither on twine
Hanging from the vanity, red and white.
They transcend their lustrous plush
Into an eternity of sentimental paper.
Tied with hemp and a prism of quartz
Thirteen dried roses, collect dust.
White light shattering into a spectrum of color
Always reminds me of morning.
On my fingertips rest her eyes in the state that owns autumn.
She dreams of a room:
Crystals hanging from the sky
Like stalactites of ice.
A willow weeping its dream catchers
Over blankets of woven wildflowers
And pillows of cumulus clouds.
The sea breeze crosses the distance
Over miles of Lake Ontario shoreline.
The bed is warm and comfortable
Listen to Jack’s snores.
On Saturdays during the harvest
Soil is rubbed from potatoes,
Concocted into something edible.
The Meat Man sells stock bi monthly
The line is slow but worth the wake
Summer is always worth the wait
Another winter on the downhill melt.
Green buds promise rebirth,
Some are not so lucky.
The crystal ball has you believe
The wheel is capable;
Equal parts misfortune; fervent desire.
You read my cards the last time I left;
Never have a string of words resonated so profoundly.
My departure points to wonder.
Would the moth blessed with hindsight
Review the flame or cocoon?