Isabelle,
You have always been a bright and shiny star to me, filled with light and love. I love you forever Isabelle Marie!! ;0)
Starry Collections
What color are the stars swaying on
silvery lines, stretched across the melodies
and chimes, stamped into the cloth
of verdant leaves and sepia bark cradling the tree?
The sovereign mast of amplified
brightness, measured by carbon ribbon winding the clock,
grafts photons passing in and out
of the celestial sphere like shoots and buds of an ancient song.
The awakening veil of sky undulates
twigs and branches, forming the left leg of a giant. Observant fairies
hoist light up winding stairways,
opening hidden doors when the rains won’t come, crying mercy to the
-fading stars.
What about the wanderlust of cosmic
nets connecting dots on twisted paths towards the total eclipse
-of lethargic stars?
The bursting atom core of
achromatic vitality yields no promise of infinite wisdom. The peculiar melody
of the black ships is haunting, tossed
between pages of the soggy book full of regret to kindly fairies
writing notes on sepia scrolls with
golden ink, petitioning the anchor to tie the tempest tossed to trees
in the hinterlands, where deep grounding
wires bend and release the electromagnetic spring, singing
waves of hope to the cape, at the pinnacle
of night, underneath the languished fence and compass clock.
Oh, brilliant Earth your wick
shines on! Still breathing in the atmosphere divided by a clock
ticking underneath pieces broken up
from Pangea, where all the human constellations form a brilliant
-sword flaming like a
nebulous of stars.
This thespian tragedy in full
color, a repertoire of massive strokes from the alchemist singing songs
of the magical promise that rainbows
speak in universal code to the nations in recoiled melodies,
spinning the terrestrial sphere,
smiling reflectively through the heated bimetallic strip underneath trees,
the water’s edge, fox garden and
lose cannons- all sifted daily by the fairies.
Oh, trumpet sound of Peace! The children
congregate chasing notes in the wind, speaking to the fairies
singing praise songs in the
meadows, firing the prairies and twining edelweiss into the wildflower clock
wreathe of butterflies pied with
moths, no longer blended into the barks of trees.
Emerging from smoke screens, we are
all loved in this harmonious color scheme, but the forlorn melody
is dying out beneath the canopy of
cosmic words, raising ashes to the wind. A collective song
of wings painted alabaster mixed
with grit and embers lingering on, smolder in the lamplight
-reunited
with the stars.
Where are the majestic hands of the
celestial warrior that cut through flesh beating on the roots of songs,
emptying Orion’s belt over fields
of the crisp mantel warmed by the sun? The refracted light from fairies
wakes sleepy heads in the boughs of
limbs, waiting for the summer solstice and the melodies
of silence enamored in love, woven
upon a garden spider’s web, hidden in the spokes of the clock,
rolling down the hill and into the pasture
where the cows produce sweet butter milk for children smiling,
-laughing and collecting stars.
The breast of courage is stepping
on stones, past the edge of night and into the breeze of swaying trees.
Where are the lost and fallen
wrecks of life and reservoirs of change? The squalor of all the trees
is an awkward regiment of war,
chopping down the cherry wood and quoting astronomy in starry
skies, where the kites tied up in
solar nooks flash the full spectrum of the seasons, whipping up melodies
and whisking the wind, braving all
the brushstrokes from the montage and persevering the
-curator’s
blazing white pattern of stars.
Shavings of the night sky, lumps of
the Earth and the white in the iris of souls, fill the torch of fairies
and caress the sun. The bells are
no longer ringing in the sleeping clocks.
The magic spell settled over the
valley of trees,
past the meridian and fine line
that has been crossed, in the distant enclave of melodies.
-But the good news has not been
forgotten, we are all stars!
Love, Mommy :)
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