I cried a river of your tears
and loved every thorn prick away;
held you from a distance,
and when you threw my words back,
like an unwanted bride’s bouquet-
like dandelions into the stream,
I gave them back in traces of sun,
warm kisses upon your sweet face,
sang lullabies in clandestine chords
lulling nightmares
with a sky full of lightning bugs.
Child, you bow your head,
then, turn your back
and walk in the other direction,
but, I can wait, silently
in the beads that fell
from your grandmother’s hand,
in pebbles you kneel on
when you have nothing left
but dreams
and me.
—
© 2016 Lynda G. Bullerwell