Days Like This to Be Read as Honey

For the child I never had

I would give you:
the honeydrip of low sun on the horizon;
a cold that sugar-coats mountain tops,
collides cells and atoms;
all the tree-lined hours of your dreams;
a moonsuck and sunstruck
clock stuck at youth;
four seasons in a day.

In my witchery I would
line up jars of bright starshine
on your windowsill;
conjure Caravaggio days,
raining pomegranate seeds;
trap it all in amber.

And if you ever lived,
you could live it too.

From what will hopefully become my third book of poetry - Before the Last Petals Fall. 

Image is from pixabay.com (Creative Commons).