The Wind Beneath Her Wings

I dreamed of wisteria -
she, of jasmine -
and so when my blossom
carpeted the soil,
hers still serenaded it
from the branches above.

we were both swans,
but the arch of her neck
was always reflected with
crispness and clarity while mine
was muddied by waters that
never treated me the same.

her current was smoother, too;
mine eddied and raged, roiling and
rolling into rocks that disrupted my
route to safety: the sea.

do you know what it is
to be broken by a melody?
to have your spine compressed
by the weight of emotion,
leaving you heart-bent and buckled?
I do.
she did not.

--

Ben Pickard 2021