Wisteria

is such a pretty word.

A whisper of inky twilight,

a crescent of a dream.

***

It sounds like a rabbit

hiding in the underbrush.

It sounds like Sylvia Plath

and her instrumental words.

It sounds like a pair

of long white hands brushing,

just barely and too, too gently,

on a starched, stiffened shirt.

***

It's not enough this word.

It slips you a glimmer of

gossamer evenings and city lights,

reflecting on tranquil waters,

and then...

just as the climax comes,

it fades away, as beautifully

as is had appeared

and leaves you with the

gentle thud of memories.

***

Wysteria is a woman.

The type of woman who

sneaks away before dawn

has awoken, while the night

is still crazy with neons.