Yet, my thoughts still dance around your eclipse,
Like excitable wave-wafts of a freshly-made dawn
On the brink of an animus’ colloidal color-sound
And the trifling trinkets of sun-swatches past morn.
The skies did break, and my fevered feet
Are circling, circling ever, those rings of gold.
When I was but sixteen, not a soul had the kind heart
To explain to me these feelings. I was never told
That glasswork were made out of dragonfly wings
Chasing sun and wind, in the freckled fold
Of a grassland swept, reaching soil to sky,
As eclipses were made out of loves left cold.
— A. P.