A streetlamp hanging from its stem turns on,
consoling a sunflower when the sun has gone.
Yes, doves are a symbol of Spirit in some religions,
but their cousins are no less holy – scruffy pigeons.
The last to dangle from the stems, a berry
swells, ripening and whole though solitary.
Exposed to rains and locked for lack of trust,
embraces – like a chain link fence – can rust.
A train of thought may be derailed by folly,
but you can catch another, neuronal trolley.
Wind will often make its small leaves rustle,
but it’s rare to see a willow flexing its muscle.
Your peace amidst the world’s pervasive fuss,
like berries in snow, is gorgeously incongruous.
A snowstorm didn’t stab the air with icicles
but mummified a pair of locked up bicycles.
We hope for beautiful endings – a leaf suceeds
as reds and yellows spread and green recedes.
You float up towards the ceiling, light as steam,
and shut your eyes – to have a doorway dream.
Mario A. Pita