I'm not much of a playmate
when my hands are sticky...

My mouth hovers over this keyboard,
dissecting a hidden keynote...

Buckets of cold doubt
dampen my pushing sunshine...

Father built a wooden stable
under our frozen pine trees...

He beguiled my senses and I faltered,
in that glorious betrayal the vital memories...

I am removed from your companionship,
the undeniable flow of my sonnets...

I keep holding onto your daisies,
even though I should have planted...

Dreadful leaves cackle outside,
dark winds confiscating my air...

My hometown,
how I wish to make...

I taught you the snowy keys
on your mother's concert player...

She suspends miniature hearts
from newspaper cuttings...

You are my flower
I can sway with you...