it hit the silver roof
beneath the tree -
a rounded short sound
shaping the afternoon
silence of butterflies,
bees and footsteps -
and rolled down
until it gathered courage
to fly through the warm air
free from its shell
through the green grass
and yellow leaves
parchments of autumn
upon which summer
inscribed its stories
of the playful young wind and
shiny blue birds' songs,
the breaking of buds and
petals falling into the sky,
a rain of diamonds and
an infinity of flaming stars
reflected in your dark eyes
each time we slept in the garden,
holding hands, smiles
seen through the breath of roses;
it crossed the road
to the wishing well -
where the sun
bathes every evening
stretching its orange dress
across the sky,
passers-by throw copper coins
to see her golden hair
in purple glitters -
and stopped.
the still air
- my smile -
and footsteps.
you stopped, bent down and
grabbed it, then took my hand
and left it in the center of my palm
I felt it warm, a little rounded heart
of a tree, its roundness holding
inside summer dreams, birds flight,
white clouds, a snowstorm
of white petals -
free from its shell
a promise..