ConfettiMaker

Hands held in silence
Reverberate with the loudest boom
Paper tendrils fly from the soul
Thin strips of white, clear, confetti
Blank, as they fly through the Wind of Time
And the dyes caught on breezy currents
As the papers find the color
And some fly. Others fall.
Only to be lifted by the breeze again
Onward via the unknown road
Warmth spills into the air
And colors deepen, darken, complete
Thus, it is perfected.
A storm of colored confetti
Swirling carelessly and with Purpose
On the gales that whisper,
“Summer comes, soon.”

All poems Lavender