Author: Israel Allen

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.