One small day condensed to the patter of rain on a hood –
and you toddling along.
A still puddle, anticipating the stomp.
A wellington poised, pink and gleaming –
to ignite a watery explosion.
Horses in the field huddle, heads bowed,
their manes flowing.
They watch as we plough on,
pure drips trickling down our faces.
You look up, suddenly, smiling.
The droplets kiss your sweet face,
the rain blessed to share this moment with you.
Previously appeared on Cultured Vultures as part of their Poetry Spotlight.
Tiny strips of white, like the little pointing fingers
of a ghostly child, like the sparks of magnesium touching a flame.
I cannot touch the daisies. They cower from me.
My darkness would block out their purity.
A miniature sun peeks out, it is shy.
They have no self esteem but I do not think them common.
They’re merely plentiful. Plentiful pearls –
millions of little saints watching over the green.
I could never bring myself to pick them.
It would be murder, their beauty would die.
They are all that I am not, or could ever be.
I plead with the daisies but they still fear me.
They call them ‘day’s eye’, is it any more than a name?
Can they truly see me, those delicate creatures?
If they should, I would understand their timidity.
I’m half-crazy really, overflowing.
Truly I am too frightful for them.
They never deserved my callousness from the start.
Previously appeared on Creekwalker in 2010.