Four Stitches

Last night the stars never went down. I spent thirteen long hours on a plane.
And here we are now, nervous as schoolgirls; skittish as horses; awkward as prom dates.
And it should be familiar: this once was my country,
Before the coming of the sea.
Hey, Tom, did your old pony ever find a way back home?
Well, the streets of our past we gambled away, when hours and days were still free.
On the roof of your car, we studied the night sky with both our adulthoods lying in wait.
And I still feel the downpour of a season so sacred.
You take my bags, pull up the car.
Hey, Tom, looks like your pony really made it pretty far.
Two feathers for the plans, and three daisies for the mem’ries.
A penny for the dust and for the love.
Four stitches for the loss, and five glasses for the riches.
And one breath for the crumbling of the sky.
Before the last snow, two synchronized blossoms waiting for summer to come.
And the world was lit up then, and the fairgrounds were shining. Your hand on my shoulder—that was enough.
And my heart was so calm then, in the roundness of waiting,
When love was innocent and slow.
Hey, Tom, d’you think our ponies will ever find a way back home?
Two feathers for the plans, and three daisies for the mem’ries.
Penny for the dust and for the love.
Four stitches for the loss, and five glasses for the riches.
And one breath for the crumbling of the sky.
Five bubbles for the glory, and a sonnet for salvation.
Some mortar for the cracks, and a pillow for the fall.
One opus for the joy, and two shards for forgiveness.
A secret stairwell for rememb’ring,
And a moment for a song.