A water bottle perched
on a desk, cluttered
with papers. Old writing,
portfolios of work half-forgotten.
A hand grips the bottle,
untwists the cap,
sips. Right now,
her words
are her only friend.

The canister fell, its contents spilling.
Paint-infused water covered the floor,
permeating the cracks of the tile,
staining it.
Brushes lay wet and askew.
The artist stares blankly,
briefly.
He picks up the container
and carries it to the sink.
There is little water left,
and what is there, is quickly
poured.
He watches it swirl downward,
indiscriminately,
into the drain. A fleeting
spiral.
He is finding the beauty in small things.

The clay mug fell, shattering,
the water inside staining
the floor with its murky
paint-infused hues.
Brushes lay, wet and askew.
Blankly, the artist stares,
the sound of his breathing
emphasizing this moment.
There is beauty in small things.

We, at various points in life,
draw a line
in the sand.
Marking where we've been,
where we stopped
to never venture forward.
Winds bring change no lines
can withstand. And we draw
them again in defiance.
We eke meaning from this sand
that would otherwise
mean nothing to us. Imparting
our own ideologies
onto an unresponsive medium
as a testament
to ourselves. Our independence.
The sand is most susceptible to change,
shifted constantly
by the sea, our feet,
the wind.
Still, we draw our lines anyway.

Emeralds and diamonds,
Affairs of State.
We didn’t build our bridges
simply to avoid walking
on water.
A bridge is a meeting place.
Neutral, casual.
A bridge is a possibility,
a metaphor of chances.
For the traffix in whispered
goods, where else but a bridge
in the night?
A philosophical people,
conversant with greed and desire,
holding hands with the Devil and God.
This living bridge is tempting,
you may lose your soul
or find it here.

*an erasure poem

Light in Latin is lumen--
It has many meanings,
the word, the idea.
Something or someone bright,
that brings clarity, clearness,
understanding.
Is it possible for people
to be lumen,
for others? I say yes.
Yes, because
my magistra taught
me that, through enthusiasm
and a language others thought to be dead.

At times I feel lost, like I'm wandering
through lush forestry,
picking the pretty flowers
that probably don't belong here
because they look like they'd make the best
first impression, leaving the ugly, thorny weeds and vines alone.
But they spread,
by some innate instinct to fold,
pressurize, concentrate, & consume.
I take the flowers that I want to boast
and view them again,
hoping with each passing glance
that they'll grow
golden and refined.
Instead, they dim slightly,
petals pursing in rebuttal
of the light they once held.
The weeds and vines have staked their claim amongst this density
and continue their expansion,
yet among them sprout more beautiful flowers--
gleaming despite the pain.