Serendipity Song

The moon of a poet is an always-roaming thing.
– Pink Girl Ink, Stacy Lynn Mar

.

Most days, I am full
to bursting, words spilling
out like milk and song. Even
when it’s all but a tiny fingernail
crease crescent in an ebony sky,
there’s a sliver of light, a right
phrase sliced slight onto my
tongue, melon sweet and
gently wanting.

Contentment comes
in phases, new and blue
and rising. Sinking down
into mountainside, holding
bright breath before filling
again, a word balloon
…….tracing its me
-andering way across
all this black.

Perhaps I’ll clack
something clean as stardust,
eraser dust fine and willing
to be blown to nowhere. Maybe
I’ll pull a tide up around my
cheeks, an indigo sea-blanket
of foam and froth and flotsam.

The cup is full.
Of love. Of grace. Of tears
and fears worth fighting,
flighting. Of breeze and
dandelion fluff and wishes
made and lost and wander
-ings and wonderings that
landed somewhere small.

It’s full of words, absurd
and lovely and honeycombed
and honed, held quiet
in marbled mouth. Spit out.

Most of them don’t have
their own light. But my scars
are in all the right places,
so they sometimes still
shine just right.

.
prompted by PinkGirlInk.

 

 

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