Wish I could hold it in my fingertips.
Caress the gentle strains
of seconds passing by.
Grasp it in my palm,
Pull it back to younger times,
But my eyes flicker to your face, swathed in a moonbeam river.
“What about us?”
my heartbeats whisper.
And the sunlight seems a little less golden
the grass a little less green
the butterflies less aflutter.
Thus I twine our fingers and let go of my vision of yesterday,
as we laugh merry into the night
and catch snowflakes on our tongues.