I am soft
And my heart is strong.

There is joy here, I tell you.

These are mournful times, I guess.
They say this isn’t a time for poets.
They say it loudly and often.

———

I walk the dog and unfocus my thoughts
Until it is only the dog and the sky and the street
And the houses and the pulling of the leash
And picking up the dog ****
And the feel of the dry dead leaves under my boots.

There is joy here, I tell you.
You don’t believe me.

It’s okay, I understand.
My grassy body has been devoured, too,
and my sweet breath stolen by the stink of the times.
I dare not speak of the rot for fear it will contaminate our sacred air.
Foolish, I know, to hang a curtain and call it a shield.

Still, I am soft
And my heart is strong.

———

I find myself staring out the window more than I used to,
Memorizing the backyard.

There’s an owl who lives in the towering evergreen right outside the nursery,
(A good omen, probably. I haven’t heard otherwise.)
That tree is said to have been a Christmas tree way back when,
now standing sentinel,
guarding the child who sleeps in its shade.

I purposely do not clean the handprint above the lightswitch in the hallway.
Its hand long gone,
A baker, her family said. The hand that planted our tree.

There is joy here, I tell you.
A weapon of defiance.
This isn’t a time for poets, they say.
They say it loudly and often.

And still, I am soft
And my heart is strong.
I sharpen my pen
And wait for the battles to come.

Right now,
legs out on the couch
One floor beneath my sleeping spouse
I am a tiny mouse
Right now.

Right now
blanket-covered cold
I am heated under folds
Fabric-covered, naked soul
I am a raw ceramic bowl
Right now.

Tomorrow I’ll be ******* tired
Tonight I’m wound with frank desire
Coals around my very core
Close the door
Have some more  
Tomorrow ill work on the how
Tonight is for
Right now.

From the tiniest spark, a fire may grow,  
A flame that burns with a secret glow,  
In the heart’s deep chambers, it starts to rise,  
A light that dances, beyond the skies.  

Oh, your heart, a chalice of purest wine,  
May fill the world with a truth divine,  
Like a rose that blooms in the moon’s soft gaze,  
Whispering secrets of forgotten days.  

In every ember, a spark of the Divine,  
Fed by love that is endless, pure, and fine,  
It burns with a light that needs no fuel,  
A fire that makes the wise and foolish drool.  

So let your flame ignite the skies,  
Claim your destiny, let it rise,  
For you are not just a fleeting spark,  
But the eternal fire that lights the dark.

A malady — or perhaps a curse —  
That swells within — a quiet verse,  
Her eyes, aglow — with secret fire,  
As if the world had spun entire  
Around that spark — a fleeting grace,  
A trace of Heaven — on her face.  

The glow, not born of earthly light,  
But something deep — a quiet fight  
Between the realms of flesh and air,  
Where mortals falter, yet she dares  
To lift the veil — and there, behold —  
A sacred tale, both fierce and old.  

It shimmers like a whispered prayer,  
A song that's sung — but never there.  
A verse, a rhythm, soft and true,  
But none can read the words that grew  
From that deep well, where time does slip,  
And souls are bound in ancient script.  

A curse, or blessing — who can say?  
Her gaze, the dawn, the dying day,  
An endless riddle wrapped in light —  
A burden and a dazzling sight.  
To touch it would consume the soul,  
Yet in its grasp, we are made whole.