poetry

however our waking goes

If even fruit-looped and burnt-toast then...

Your keys now,
        Mine when I was a kid;
Hard to believe it still plays like it did
        When I lost even a spanked-butt-bid
For overdue homework to it.
You yawny-eye-begged
        That I thread a lullaby through it,
So I cracked my knuckles
        And finger-glid you a sonnet upon it.
You’re no insomniac, my foxglove;
        I found you forty-winking five bars in:
Flying, singing into the wind,
Abound on bluebonnets, who knows?
        But as milky-way-gone as you were,
I couldn’t stop playing,
        For I, too, was rest-awaying woes.
Oh, Spunkheart,
However our waking goes,
        If even fruit-looped and burnt-toast then,
To cherish you is akin to Seuss’s art.
        Daydreamingly your dad,
I’ll love you unending-so—
        Letting go’ll be the impossible part.


—for Nonner
© 2018, photograph by J. Horner, Windstrewn and Windstrewn.com, All Rights Reserved


Previous Post:
    Poetry: Yellow Grass
        https://windstrewn.com/2018/10/10/yellow-grass/


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