In these dreams,
the breeze smells like spring,
bridesmaids wear yellow,
she kisses me
gentle and pink.
In these mornings,
her side of the bed is cold,
I creak to the porch,
rock the chair alone.
In these evenings,
I may shed a tear,
but I won’t repent,
though I knew
it was a sin
to pluck her
from the head of the pin,
that someday
she would fly away.
