Letters swallow themselves in seconds.
Notes friends tied to the doorknob,
transparent scarlet paper,
sizzle like moth wings,
marry the air.
So much of any year is flammable,
lists of vegetables, partial poems.
Orange swirling flame of days,
so little is a stone.
Where there was something and suddenly isn’t,
an absence shouts, celebrates, leaves a space.
I begin again with the smallest numbers.
Quick dance, shuffle of losses and leaves,
only the things I didn’t do
crackle after the blazing dies.
- Naomi Shihab Nye, 1952
Jan 9, 2018
Jan 9, 2018 at 1:41 AM UTC
Table
Carry,
stand me up,
support me,
through all the battles
Be, my table
Sep 12, 2017
Sep 12, 2017 at 2:37 AM UTC