swearing by all flowers,
she spins hours making eyelashes
of petaled promises, lovesmelovesmeknot
chains of whim. give her a peri
-winkle pen and a bit of white space,
trace her own heart along
veined vines, and leavings.
there’s quiet math between
and algorithms hung on
smiles and this ol’ notebook’s stitched
thousands and thousands of miles
if you count the day she
erased it all.
silence comes only in small
white drifts, quiet liftings
of spirit and indigo touch,
not so much an inky line
on ivory sands
Prompted by Poetic Asides, day 8 of the PAD Challenge.