Poetry

An amniotic fluid initiates 
the moon to the thunderstorm― 
as you climb the tide. 
 
Like a stag― opening the 
summer, browsing on 
the daisies. 
 
It takes sometime 
to sink. This was― 
the peacock hour. 
 
A finch will land― 
on my shoulder and 
look into my eyes, ritualizing it. 
 
The glow was real 
in your hair, 
borrowed from the sun.