forget-me-nots

rare as forget-me-nots, found basking in the mellow light by creeks and solemn meadows, undiscovered, untempted to be of anything, of anywhere.

still, they murmur a memory. the forget-me-not seeds I kept in my purse for years. their home was a garden where blackbirds and hoopoes dwelled— it was but a sacred dream.

the dandelions whimper of all the wishes they keep secretly until a landing on golden grounds is sealed.  they’re wisps wrapped in silky touches of spring-air. 

they talk to me. they’re not gone. poems.. songs.

my broken sounds ‘neath apple boughs and midst a flower bed so serene.

but I’ve let all my birds go never seeking their distant return. I’ve let them go as I let an old love die, taking me along with it.

but they’re here now. my birds. my forget-me-nots, and sacred dreams.