A glass is broken across our backs.
The shards take hold and we wince.
We hoist the world upon our shoulders.
It drives the shards in deep, like tacks.

We suffer the pain of cultured hate.
The daggers destined for our flesh.
Still they expect we lift the empire,
And with our wounds support its weight.

Whether they praise us for being brave,
Or curse our kind to an early death,
They all demand our labor to drive
Production until we hit the grave.

sometimes

She thinks about digging it up.
She wonders why she doesn't.
The climate is overbearing.
Why shouldn't she?

sometimes

There is only one answer.
She has but one thing stopping her.
The fruit is delicate and unripe.
She can't spoil it.

sometimes

It really hurts to work.
It takes a lot of care to keep growing.
The environment is toxic.
How does she do it?

Sometimes, all that keeps her going is one small thing, too precious to let suffer.

I danced in the field of daisies.
I sang of the beautiful day.
With my feet cozy in the clover,
I asked the field if I could stay.

The circle of mushrooms around me:
I wanted to make it my home.
I knelt softly to the earth,
And I worried that I was alone.

The waves in the grass were a beauty.
My heart raced at the touch of the wind.
I want to care for her forever,
If a place in her midst she will lend.

If you were here, would the day be brighter?
Would we all laugh and play together?
Or would today be hard for you?
Would it be hard to have your sixth birthday during quarantine?

If you were here, would I get to hold you today like I did once so long ago?
Would you have come running to jump in my bed and wake me up for the day?
Or would I be coming to your room with a sweet breakfast and a soft smile to cheer you up?

If you were here today, would you be excited the year was halfway through?
Or would the approaching start of the school year remind you that friends are still so far away?

It doesn't hurt as much when this time of year comes around anymore, but I still wonder how today would be different if you were here.

Yesterday I couldn't think,
And I wondered what I'd have done
If you'd been there.

Today it seemed that in a blink
I'd finished it all before I'd begun.
And were you there?

Tomorrow might take us to the brink.
I hope to hold you when it's run,
If you'll be there.

But we don't know when I might sink,
So take the chance that we have won
And hold me today.

Looking back on this turbulent year,
I see so many beautiful colors
which shine through any passing fear,
or incessant trials whether small or large.
I often get caught up in momentary
hardships, losing sight of all the glories
but if I neglect the good it carries
I may miss the opportunity for memories.

The pain of sweet laughter followed by longing
Is a bewildering sensation that snakes itself around me.
When feeling so spent that nothing tense satisfies,
I settle for the momentary joy followed by the dull ache.

The ache itself should be intimately familiar,
But somehow it feels like a fresh wound every time.
Why must I process my feelings this way?
In every heartbeat is a new opportunity to sting.

Shouldn't I appreciate the opportunity to feel?
Shouldn't I celebrate joy that I so miss?
Perhaps two things are true of the human condition:
Longing and loss--inextricably intertwined.