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!