This is
a blank
diary
day, a
day to
refuse
history,
a day
to buy
the sun
on credit.

There is
a vagrant
flower
in the
fragrant
bower
below
a dappled
maple
that
reminds
me of
you -
a traveler,
beautiful
wherever
it posts
its blossom.

A day
where
Lorca's spell
unfurls:
"Green, I want you green,
green wind, green branch”

The sky is
casually
tossed
into a
patch
of wild
spearmint -
this is
a day
where
we join
the high
things.

This is
a day
for a
child's
lace
dress,
a day
when
the bricks
sigh with
their
architecture.

This,
this is
a day
for coins
of clouds
to pay our
admission
fee to
heaven.