I like yellow flowers.
I realize how much has changed;
How the stars appear brighter.
I am wary of the light sometimes.
I remember its deceptiveness.
I catch myself smiling
with a lightness and innocence,
As though I did not emerge
gasping for breath
only to submerge again.
And again. And again.
I chide the part of me that smiles,
child-like. I remind her
of happiness that is hard earned;
I tell her to not spend it all at once.
To save some
For nights that are darker
For mornings that are colder
For roads when she finds — I find myself alone.
I tell her to wrap up her smiles
In cotton wool,
To ration out her joy in bits and pieces
A little here and there, wisely.
She laughs loudly — audaciously.
And it sounds like cowbells
On a warm afternoon in the meadow.
She blows bubbles in the bath
And makes smileys on the fogged mirror.
I stand besides her
Trying to protect her from herself.
Someone has to maintain the archives of memories.
But her happiness is absolute
She wants no part of the carefulness.
I hesitate a little, and indulge
Into a smile like sunshine sometimes.
I still like yellow flowers.