On a page
a word
stirs.
Stirring stalks
flower
buds of May.
May showers
tease
our forlorn skies,
Skies that mate,
then split
to birth a language:
this language that is
shaped like
a yellow flower.
A yellow flower
crowns
my pretty heartache,
a heartache that weaves
sunsets
around a single word:
a single word
that stirs
on my lonely page.