Florida showers leave the sun to hang hopeful in the sky.
Even under the safety of the umbrella it left
its reflection to bloom aureolin under your fingers
at the first drops of rain —
like when the artists had spread their paint across the watercolors
hanging inside the café,
bright splashes of hope to contrast the blues. Across the table
you uncross your legs, open
like the orchids flourishing on the windowsill,
lounging in the humidity
while it collects in your hair and trickles down your neck
like the most bewitching of poetry.
What a beautiful love poem.
What a beautiful love poem.
Starward