Sun Catcher

To the one

who used to catch the sun

with the tips

of her fingers: her lips

like the moon,

a crescent. As a tune

of unfathomable memories

breathes through the trees

so does my yearning heart desire

to see her dance by the fire.

Oh, sweet pure love

have you left me forever? Like a dove

with a stem of hope in its beak

has now gone. That thing with feathers speaks

of nothing but days gone by

without the notice of my eye.

“Too late”, says the one

who used to catch the sun,

and kisses me goodbye.