Moonlit midnight

Lit up like silver, the rain washed streets shine.
Reflecting the sparkle bestowed upon them.
Over head the drenched clouds rush in front of the wind.
Falling to earth in a swirl of fog to escape the cold breeze.
Misting above the shining streets, hiding the sparkle of water filled hollows, the clouds converge creating ever changing shadows.
Silvered moon, still shining, plays with the shad of tree branches. Constantly shifting as the cold wind revels among them.

Dancer

On my arm
I have a dancer;
colorful and bright.
She'll twirl, laugh and smile
Glowing even at night.

Sometimes, if I'm not careful,
she'll get washed away
but someone always draws her back
onto my arm the next day.

Once in a while
she'll be covered by my sleeve.
Hiding from a rebuke
to her outrageous gaiety.

Pull it back and you'll find,
smiling up at you,
her ever changing, expressive face,
looking for your dancer to.

Everyone has a dancer,
otherwise they'd be quite dull.
Acting simply as robots,
a quiet shell, a hull.

Next time you meet someone,
don't be polite and bland.
Try to find their tiny dancer
on a leg, chest or hand.

Strangers that we know So well

Happiness permeates the air
sounds of children laughing
mingled
with the sun.
Shining down over the cracked asphalt
That is trampled over by little shoes.
He runs after her, pulling at her braids
Teasing, trying to grab her attention
the only way he knows how.
She runs to the teacher,
“Tell Him to leave me alone!”
He stops, the teachers
eyes
pin him down.
Turns him to rejoin the soccer game
across the field.

Back in class.
They get new seats,
He behind her.
Her chair moves, pulls back.
push forward, pull back
push
pull
push...
Teacher, “Something wrong?”
they both turn red.
He is moved far away
She doesn’t look at him again.
Then summer.

New school, years later.
Everything is so different,
He’s on the soccer team, popular.
She’s in Art Club, different.
They don’t recognize each other
passing in the hall.
Turning a corner they,
crash,
papers flutter to the ground.
Sketches, mix with math formulas.
An english paper is nearly
crushed
beneath the passing crowd.
“I believe this is yours?”
They say. “Thank you.”
And move off.

Next semester,
she sits behind him
Science class, how boring.
She thinks, kicks the chair,
push forward.
Pull back.
“I’m sorry!”
Teacher “Problem you two?”
They both turn red.
She looks at him.
Wearing her hair in two
long braids that day.
Smile.
Then summer.