Young

Golden clarity on the tips

Like the first one on your lips

Your smile opens

The ocean leaps in celebration

White foam over the clearness of your blue

Cliché of the heavens

Like picking out flowers

I used only the good ones

Vulnerability of the weeds

The good doers never win do they?

Letters in the sky

Reflections of

Wounds in the crevices

But the wind comes

Sweeps the dirt

And it’s like it never mattered