The meaning of leaves in
a refreshing cool wind
He chose to live
for friendship
Not for that
other thing

Harpsichord melodies sing
Upon a butterflies wings
As from flower to medow it now flies
Whilst the summer skies look down

Darting on the winds of time
Sailing gliding flying high
Stopping by the poppy so red
Resting wing's on the flower bed

Onto the next on a song from the trees
Weeping willows bend with ease
Natures brook babbles along
And still she flies with wings of love

And when the moon appears high at dusk
Stillness reaches out to all
Rest little butterfly tired and spent
For the land will be yours when day break falls

I know where you are, I think, but I change my story every time
I'm not sure where you lie, I know that you carve an arc
to Arcturus, the fourth-brightest light in the sky
and to me, I guess, it doesn't matter if that's the star
at which I'm pointing- what matters is that it's there
and for all I care, what matters is what people on Earth
think of me and your muttered glow shining down upon my hair.

I'm missing the smell of sunscreen splattered in white blotches across my wind chapped cheeks, that will soon blend in with the snow
I'm missing the three layers of socks I yank on and stuffing my boots with shakeable hand warmers because my toes always freeze
I miss the sound of heel toe heel toe heel toe as the hard plastic boots click against grated metal stairs down to the buses
I miss the smell of hot chocolate and barbecue in the air and snow flurries tenderly kiss my face floating downwards
I miss the sound of the chair lifts thud thud thud and clicking my skis together to shake off the fresh powder that has accumulated
I miss the sound of my poles hitting each other accidentally, and the dots they make in fresh champagne powder between the glades
I miss the feeling of relief when I ski into the four points lodge by sunshine peak and grab a cafeteria trey and get my usual macaroni and cheese
I miss the feeling of watching snow flurries melt as they land inside my hot chocolate that tastes cheap and watery but so warm
I miss singing songs on the lifts, especially the quads, and deciding which runs to do next, black blue or green?
I miss saying mountain words like "elk head, jackrabbit, slopes, hockey stop, sunshine express, morningside, storm peak, thunder- head" the list goes on
I miss feeling completely at home in a helmet, huge goggles, fleece chilis and a ski jumper
I miss Steamboat, I miss skiing, I can't wait for this year.

I want you to be all mine, I want no one else to see you
but I know that your nobility was passed through generations
that you are revered for being small and righteous and beautiful
that you represent the Word, spoken, the source of all creation
and you are not mine- you aren't even in my hemisphere. I know that
you mean more to people thousands of miles away than to me
but it doesn't change that I cling to you as though you were mine
if only you were mine- I just want something, anything,
to belong to me. I'm tired of having things ripped away,
related to, agreed with. *******. I don't belong to you. Don't take this too.