A Place to Share

Your voice lingers in my thoughts for hours
You are a gray fog hovering a swamp
And I am the swamp
Your gray fingers drip into my swells of mud
Once we spoke of love, infatuation and contentedness
I am content my love
For you are but a cloth flung into a pile of laundry
But of the fine linen silk that I shall hand-wash and dry
I will iron it to perfection so that I might wear again
You are like a day lily
Shut down at night to survive
I shall pick you and place you on my windowsill
Thus forgetting that you will wilt from your creekbed home
You are not a daylily.
Perhaps you are an apple
You have fallen from my branches
Your shiny red shell should catch that of my sight
I' will come to retrieve you
i will place on my windowsill
Andthen you will rot.
You are not an apple
But a young oak tree
And in my forest, you will grow for a thousand years
As time passes, you will grow to be more exquisite than ever
And your branches will drip with jewels.
For I am the squirrel
And your wisdom will oversee my well being
I will, with intrigue, dream of ever being so wise and so strong.

Tara Jean "TJ" Olson