Caliraya

Your footsteps are never meant
to decorate this lonely alleyway
with Tulips and Chrysanthemum,
nor with Bluebells and Daffodils...

only with Dandelions,
yes... just Dandelions.

I will ride that boat again
to cross this artificial lake...

this time,
not with you...

but with the sun spots
that nearly cover the desire and urges
to always be with you.

I will abandon another poem
for the nth time,
because the sky is Raspberry
and it found me writing about you again
a long while ago.

Lowly Larks fail to reach
the summer skies.
And the weeping tides try
to find serendipity
with the poems I wrote relentlessly
about you;
but they only find Dandelions...

only Dandelions,
yes... just Dandelions.

After three days,
we will meet someone's departure.
His farewell will reach us at twilight
amidst Bracken Vines
and some unknown voice
that speaks in foreign language --
reflecting the way cerulean boats
cross this lake.

This lake doesn't seem
to house dreams, but it does...
doesn't seem to play hide and seek,
but it does...
and doesn't seem to listen
to a poetry made of
cities, mountainsides,
raindrops, remorse, footsteps,
February, and the nights I lay awake
just thinking of you,
but it does.

I wonder...
will it also listen to a poem
made of Dandelions?

Only Dandelions,
yes... just Dandelions.