Sophia

14

It goes slow and then all at once__

Red light. Green light.__
And maybe then a yellow light, but hey-__
let's not call the sun yellow, but let it be white__
and pink__
vibrant, blooming heat to melt into your soul__
and you can't stop drinking it__
one glass after another__
after another after another__
somebody once told me, it was one of those wet days in april, that a rose is a rose is a rose__
but it's not. A rose is three roses and then six, but why math?__
just give me a dozen roses, and a quick flower on my cheeks, on the lips__
and that'll be enough for now__
but that pink light, that sun, that maybe, hey-don't call it yellow light__
gold, like a flash of a locket on a brown neck, a warm brown neck__
swinging and swaying, but always there__
following along with the dancing shadows__
YES, keep on going__
on sunlit paths__
warm curtains of rain__
and salt on the wind__
and that dozen will grow to twenty four__
and maybe when you have to walk into that cold room of sales and pencils that don't belong to you__
you'll have a room of them, them roses__
they don't all have to be red, you know.__