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April showers when we first met,
still I dream of half past September.
Is it the folds of silken sky
you see in me
when the pen runs dry
and pockets of poetry seep the river’s edge
and caress the rolling crimson hills?
Can we find time to run from all the madness,
heal the deepened sadness, escape the chaos of the mind?
If only I could pull unraveled strings,
pray for simple happy things,
unwind the moon,
release the stars,
leave our footprints in the sand,
tell me, would you take me by the hand?
© Connie Song 2025. All Rights Reserved.
