Too small for U. S. Cents,
Too rare to be in historical museum,
Too heavy to make sense,
Too abstract to dwell in the hands of the child.
.
A shooting star soars cross the sky,
A spark flashes through the squeezing rocks,
A lightening flies by,
A basket of wool to make warm socks.
.
All promises freeze like ice,
All greetings ring like bells.
All gamblers focus on the dice,
All smiles ripple under the spells.
.
Hides behind the time that flies,
Dances in the hands that knit ties.
Hope is like the invisible air,
It makes stirs everywhere….
*****
Monday’s Child: Monday’s Child
Poets United Poetry Pantry
Jingle Poetry Monday Poetry Potluck
