Dreams
©Sue Ann Bowling

How did we come here, sheltering from the storm beneath a crumbling bridge,
leaning against its rusted girders?
Once we had dreams.
You kicked a soccer ball along this very bridge;
I yearned to hold the ocean in a wooden spoon.
Now your hair is wet with rain,
and my leg is cut to the bone by the trash we pick.
Our lives are no more than smoke.
But does not smoke make fantastic patterns in the air?

I was going to post this Thursday, but I have more than enough ice art photos for Thursday and Saturday both, so I’ll get my entry in now. See the original post for the prompts–and this is not my usual genre!