Making Wishes

Hang on to Sunday’s
mysteries woven in the blue
of night sky and golden honey,
ablutions like specks
suspended in beams
of gauze-filtered sunlight,
just floating there.
And Monday’s workaday ache.
Hold on to every day,
because ghosts come faster
now, waving your immortality
like gauzy flags, or shrouds.
Everything could change--
today’s melody quaint and tinny,
if you remember it at all.

Late entry for Grace’s challenge to the Real Toads, inspired by the poetry of David Huerta. Thank you, Grace.
Sharing on the Tuesday Platform in the Imaginary Garden!