Here on this ledge
where many come to sit
in solitude, or with company
they leave behind pieces of their grief,
fragments of their love, seeds of their hope
stopping to take a breath
swallowing their words
for a minute of silence

and every time, I plant these things
with the little dandelions,
that make you sneeze
so there's something to blame
for the red eyes

because nothing blooms here
without carrying
someone's story
for you to read, for you to feel.

What we’ve come to know
about being human
is to grow in phases
to take pain and grief
from the ends of the bookshelf
and to stir them into the atmosphere

breathing in and out
until the silence between each breath
was a bridge to relief

it was never to solve the puzzle in a day
or to sort through all the pieces in
a strategic manner
but to feel the joy of frustration
the strange joy of trial and error

What are the things you hold onto?

lavender petals
and oceans of breeze
I twist wind around my fingers
because it’s so free
I cling on to departures
& doorway exit chats
I grip table conversations
where napkins fall to the floor
and we unknowingly
covered in crumbs and crumbled
pastry, coffee and lavender tea
I hold onto
friendships and moments
and when the ground starts shifting
I still
like static wind
like irony

walking those shorelines
and rocky borders
between the heart & mind

on a mend
in an effort to learn
the signature of each lung

with the hope
that this breathlessness
parallels the transience of life

don't forget to look up from the sand,
from the little voice
between the two sounds of a working heart

the ocean raises a salute
for those moments
that never leave us

To have forgotten
a thousand mornings of blaring sun

here, with April on the horizon
and a flit of transitional snow

my heart pulsing in my hands
my soul pulsing in my heart

here, with a new day on the horizon
here, with new places to go

to have remembered
a thousand evenings, a thousand endings

holding little sewing pins
to flag and label
the delicate nerves
of reminiscence
and the friable folds
of understanding
we always stand here
put on spot
to answer, to name
what is laid before us
all its pieces and parts
and we always struggle
searching other eyes
to find a sense of comfort
that no one here
feels entirely sure
of how to go about it

I feel that same Sunday chaos
in the kitchen, fingers digging
into orange skin

a trailing scent of spring
citrus blooms into the air

here, in this moment
with one hand
and terrible penmanship
I write my name

and with the other
I hold the feeling
of missing things