I am still faithfully following petals as paths with my soul’s whispered directions to where you are at, the one to reciprocate all this love I have, and along the way, I’ve grown to love the way I am.
Give me a palm, let me be your fortune, telling you again and again how much I adore you. Let me lead the way to our private island where coastal tracks in rocks and sand and wildflowers map where the ocean unravels as ripples in the bay. Take my hand. Stay.
The pull of the day, of the years, of everyone’s needs leaves shadows and cavities from ebb’s never-ending taking, but the sun’s reflection warms me in oranges, and the glow stays. The light one way or another will illuminate, independent of ever reaching that haunted, hollowed space.
Not a beanstalk, but it might as well be, magic seeds sprouting the way to giant dreams, and in the center, a sunbeam passes through a hole in a leaf purposefully to reach me, or is it simply that light is at the center of all belief?
Insignificant the manmade pier seems, foolishly leading horizontally…