Spun, gentle as sugar on
this cone you hold between fingers like
daggers, this sky sits.
As the first breath of any newborn squalling
must color it is alight
I can taste the hover on my lips
the dance of honey a touch
of lavender on the wind to calm. Soothe.
Deceive in wisdom and perhaps
baths in a radiance we can’t
replace with words.
If laughter became gumdrops. If
tears became the endless, aching blue.
If the air grew wings and nested
restlessly, upon my silvered tongue.
Then I could make it seen, this glory this
rapture in ourselves.
This place we call home.