A Poem A Day, Poem #7

love is a terrible place to plant your wishes
when the heart is a noisy house and harvesting
a little quiet touching is interrupted by old
blood rinsing out those memorable midnight
imaginings to swim in the new bittersweet
wash of kiss-blowing that paints the walls of this hope
called flower the color of something clean and
unremarkable like a girl balancing her flimsy
feet on a string, waiting for the hands of my heart,
waiting for some seeds of sun to sprinkle a little
starspray on the lips of awakening anew everyday,
listening to little breathing you,
counting the petals of my wishes,
washing them with rain soaked fingers,
caressing them with hope stained hands