How is your life a language
of whispered dreams? Aches and honey
beneath the tiny thousand lights, crushed diamonds
shining to recall the delirious dazzle of before
you could ask the fiddler
to play pink-petaled spring, would you?
And hold the sky still, timeless
for a moment, black blown away, birdsong rippling blue.
Another puente from the Magnetic Poetry Oracle. She knows spring is coming, and she was crying out for a blue painting. I almost went with Franz Marc, but this Chagall fits so perfectly.