the streak of sunlight
behind those clouds,
ah, the crunch of dried leaves,
the dancing shadows
of slender trees,
the silhouette
of birds flying past
the rainbow,
all the hidden voices,
the diminished sounds,
the penetralia
of written words
and painted art,
oh, the poignant smell of old,
preserved petals—
far from fresh
but meaningful,
sentimental
in a sense
an indulgence,
an acquired taste,
reminiscent
of the first laugh,
the first touch
and all this insanity,
a dream I cannot wake up from
where I am lost, compelled
to do something new
before everything becomes
you, you, you
Evelyn Dumag-Gabinete
This is the #potd poem of the day.
I would love to write a poem for you. See how.
Just Evelyn 