dotted with bitter white dandelions.
With the beginnings of a sigh,
a gentle breeze
leads them away into a circle dance in the wind.
The pond sleeps,
under a sugar maple sequestering
you
away from the sun.
Away from those loud, spinning colors;
And from that music that mocked your pounding head.
And those lights--
so many lights--
green and red and green and red and yellow,
flickering over your head,
on and off and on and again and again,
giving you no regard.
That world that spun around and pushed over and left behind the
you
who it found
too shy and too slow
ever to be a part of it.
So it's okay to let your wishes drift off,
as long as you can take solace here,
in the sweet, serene somnium
of the mourning doves' song.
It's okay...