Today is a day for writing and reading poetry.
The sun streams so
I can almost sense the outline of each ray.
Subtle sorrow and quiet joy danse within my chest:
Hope rimmed hopelessness.
Today is a day for parsing thoughts on notepad paper.
My crossed legs are as much of a desk as I’ll require.
I wish everything didn’t feel so far,
Measured in distance or time or perceived connection.
Like Precious Moments that sit on the mantle with their weak points (usually appendages) super-glued for a few more months of preservation. They’ll stay until the next unsuspecting hand finds itself in the same space where there is not room enough for two. And the Precious Moment then becomes but a precious memory, swept up and stored by the street for Monday morning pick-up.
This too shall pass.
And I’ll be here
Filled to the brim with possible poetics.
Maybe you’ll stop and look at my mended patchwork self
who is hoping to leave others unscathed in my shattering.