We Wander On

A Year of Sonnets — 021/365

Photo by T. Chick McClure on Unsplash

Unfold your hand, love; every story ends
and so will this: the wind lift us away.
It wasn’t so important, don’t depend
on roots to hold you to this dimming day.

The light recedes in pretty colors, there
and fast away, a temporary hope
that burrows into bone, a lovely snare
illuminating lives beyond your scope.

Those colors are not yours, though others might
have grace enough to chase after their voice;
we get our grief where others have delight —
Leave them their luxury, you have no choice:
for poverty is buried in your skin,
it poisons everything from deep within.