Welcome home

“He will be late” says the moon, yawning
From underneath her blanket of clouds
“He surely won’t get here before morning”
Shimmer the sleepy stars hazily in  crowds

The little flower snuggles her petals shut
Promising to bloom awake when he does come
The song of the wind stills to an end abrupt
To pieces go my planned grand welcome

With just the shine of my eyes for light
With just the curve of my arms for a garland
With just the beat of my heart for music
He will have to be content

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