When You Wish . . .

do you read poetry?

what do you know of poets?

we are a distracted lot.

yes. I write and

call my scribbles poetry,

call it prose. it flows from the

pen in my hand in long

ribbons, to suggest ideas

and emotion.

meandering descriptions

of places that we have seen.

that I have seen without you.

that you may have seen without me.

outside my window

the world changes as the sun

drifts across the sky.

like Monet’s cathedral

day after day painted to capture

light, hue, and color changing.

i am no Monet. but i capture light

if not of day then of night, of dreams

and wishes, like clouds over beds

or rising above piazza fountains

that collect the coins of dreamers

who wish their dream real. a million

Pinocchios wait in a million shadows

for a blue fairy, for the tap of her

wand, so they may breathe.

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