Bread heels have feelings,
and Roombas do, too;
they've noticed your work
and want to thank you.
It might feel silly,
and some may remark
that your efforts are
wasted--but snark, we
have enough of in the
world, so keep your strange,
small displays of good.

Blank canvas, empty space
neither cluttered nor erased
born beginning, hidden end
different journeys to contend

caterpillar, butterfly
never living, has not died
metamorphosis and quiet
cement walls, open sky

on my own now, everything
all rolled out in front of me
the past, a crumpled rug behind
infinity, undefined

I've always preferred
wild morning glories
over perfect, dead,
and red things in a vase;
I want mistakes, and room to grow.
Let's throw down roots
in troubled soil and turn
broken glass and metal scraps
into little white trumpets, unfurled.

I've been stuck in the future.
It's nothing unusual
for me to worry about
things that have not come to pass;
that might not ever happen;
that change, as things often do.

Bound at the bramble-hub where
all possible timelines snare,
unable to sort them out
with mortal hands, and it feels
impossible to return

to the present; but with some
hard work and intention, I
can remember everything
that is waiting for me here.

I couldn't write a poem;
I had too much going on.
Excuses, excuses.
No subject pleasant enough;
It's always pain or love
with me, and writing in
a good mood's like pulling teeth.
But perhaps I need to
dwell on the good things as well.

When I was younger, I
struggled with my aws
and ethes; teachers tried
showing me to form
my mouth and played Go Fish
and Jenga with me;
and those blessed women
just wanted me to speak,
and the more I spoke,
the better I got; so
I'll speak though I shake;
sometimes, a lot.

You've been here before,
and you'll be here long after
the dawn has broken.

It's just hard to remember
the way you silenced
the doubt, resisted despair;
all the times that you
found yourself exactly here.

The only constants
in life; pain, dead-ends, starless black,
and yet, you remain.