Pyrite

It’s Christmas lights, too easily
Unplugged
It’s reaching with kid-fingers,
My so-called small arm
To place the star perfectly upon the peak
I am peaking, constantly
Confused
Why so much sparkling,
No lasting light,
Then again,
I should remember about
Fool’s gold and the rush for
California,
dreaming, still, small
Both hands and all..





Back


© 2022 Monica Lewis