I Hope

His eyes opened,

unhinging as if for the first time amidst

a field of Elysian poppies,

red as a balloon.

 

The sky twinkled,

a million yellow diamonds suspended by silken spider threads,

interrupted only by puffed white pompadours sleeping in the sky.

 

A stream ran along next to him,

clumsily sticking to rocks and sand--

pearly shells hidden beneath the tiny liquid feet.

 

He saw one stone

sitting on the shore,

paper white, and speckled

with ink-black pen pricks--

smooth as ice.

 

So he gruffly pliéd to

pick it up, and

righting himself, smiled,

then continued alone.

 

And the smell of coffee wafted across the grass.

 

He followed the scent,

speaking to himself in a rough and smoky baritone--

trudging happily over acres of dandelions.

 

He wanted to pick them all as he passed,

finding each more inspiring than the last,

but he left them,

instead sprinkling sage solution over their roots and leaves

to help them grow.

 

And then there’s the yellow Flicker

who flew overhead,

lighting the man’s path while

the threads began to set,

dimming the yellow diamonds too soon.

Too soon.

_______________________________________

 

 

This piece is an ode to a friend and poetry teacher who died unexpectedly. He was a coffee drinking, cigarette-smoking poet and carpenter, who touched nearly every life during his time at my high school. The first time I heard his poetry was in 4th grade, when he read his poem 'Flicker' to my class. His most marked characteristic was to weave language and thought together. Rather than using periods, he would only pause thoughtfully, and continue with, 'And then there's...' Thank you, Michael, you're sorely missed.

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