An ode to the photograph of a boy I never knew:
Blue boys sprout and waft in the same breeze brushing your loose strands. Bare shoulders freckle as sunlight wraps you, lights you, burns you. Blossoming cornflowers recall mornings spent beneath stained glass. Mornings spent beneath your passing glance.
I fear I will never know you.
Autumn halo so golden in the summertime, you play my muse. I am your idolizing sculptor. I reach for freckled skin and my touch finds stone. Oh, naught but trembling daydreams and stone.
What pen can write you? What ink can give rise to your unfathomable self? I know naught of you. How might this pen then tell of what I know not?
Bare shouldered farm boy betwixt a bed of blue boys. Dirt stained fingers wrap around long stems as you gather. Your eyes alight upon your chosen blossom and in perfect stillness you reach.
Were I but a wavering cornflower in your grip! I would happily fade amongst the bouquet if only it gave you pleasure. Were I but the sunlight caught in your summer lightened hair! Ah even to be soil beneath your fingernails, for then inside myself you would have reached. Oh but to touch you as the breeze so freely caresses.
What thoughts wander behind the serenity of your expression? Your lips part slightly. Your brow softens. What love but that of a cornflower?
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