The clear glass puddles ripple with morning light
The river rushes fast and dizzying under the bridge
And iridescent drops hover from the trees

Somehow, even the air tastes different
Though it is the same school yard air it always is
It tastes adventurous, mysterious
Tastes like a promise that today will be different

It tastes like a place I imagined once
The wind carrying the scent of the story before it starts,
and I remember that even fairy tale characters have history to learn

I stand under the rain and pull the hood from my face
letting it pound into my eyes until it blurs everything I see

The rain, reminding me once again of how to dream

There’s this list:
an almost perfect year-ender,
a chord that didn’t fit so
you had to play it broken,
drafts written for the purpose
of being great poems
but remained as is because
they were missing powerful
words.

The deafening silence.
The feelings you tried to ****.
The misunderstood hints.

Or tropical countries waiting for snow
and insightful books selling poorly.

Somewhere, a boy caught up
in a scenery and bright sunlight.
He wants to be a photographer
but fails to capture passing moments.

“They were too fast”, he said.

She once thought,
she wanted to be a poet,
but deep down,
she knew,
she wanted to be a poem.

When all is gone,
that matters now,
one last poem,
survives somehow.
And so you read,
and so it goes,
explaining this,
in rhyme or prose;
My dear sweet love,
I love you still,
with all my heart,
I always will.

You make me feel this way somehow,
as if I am so beautiful
that the earth will shatter
if I move like I know it.
And I know it now,
so let's watch me
break this world together.