Something Like Fear Whispers Over Tea

It’s where butterflies come from. I know.
Not everyone is looking for it.
Some people look a bit and then quit.
Some people talk, talk, talk. But don’t go.

It is still sinking. You can’t be slow,
although it’s tempting to rest, to sit
and talk over hot tea. Dreams don’t fit
on the table top where shadows glow.

I’m gone. Gone away. Not even here.
Like an alchemist looking for gold
that isn’t really gold. Or a kiss

that’s not still a kiss. Something like fear
whispers over tea. But I’d be bold.
If I were looking for Atlantis.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .



Petting Butterflies


The Season’s First Monarch



Christmas Witches I Mean Wishes


Christmas Witches: A Present Of The Past



An Embrace On The Past



Crying (A Loose End)