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