Pink chiffon sweats then crinkles,
falls limp, finally wrapping around bulky thighs
and flaring out at knobby knees -
scarred with dreams of children young
for those days of easy breathing,
especially at night.

Tattle-tales swirl in the aqua-like sky
making pictures of our nightmares;
god's little angels hum because
dead voices cling to the wings of wind
to wrap cruelly around stars,
making them drop like stones.

Tone-deaf trees lean to catch then release
a child's dream catcher
until we enter the age of wonderment;
it is the root of our posture, making romance
easy until the wind comes to collect
and sweep us away, especially at night.

Gwydion, this one has a gentler touch than most of your work. I like it.

Les

Thank you, Les!

She is just growing up, Les. lol :p