How do you fit so much meaning
into such little space?

Like all my love
in one kiss

or all the world
in mere paint.

Sometimes, as I walk
I pick up a piece of the earth
to carry it with me
mere dirt, and yet
I hold it so
carefully
as if it could break if I dropped it.

I measure its weight in the palm of my hand
and wonder if anubis would find my soul this light
and let it crumble between my fingers
and watch it stain my skin.

I wonder if, in my life
I have left any mark
as significant as that.

I feel like I have a superpower
when I descend into this empire of words
like a descent into a crypt of bones
yet it opens, like a flower, to my touch
to a world, hidden, a wonderland
of beauty, of passionate lust for
creation itself

I expect the lights to flicker
as the language tilts from my tongue
like lilting spells cast in ancient dreams
did they have power after all?
it flows over my fingertips
like honey, thick and sweet
nourishing, an ambrosia of life
and the purest of expression

vulnerability
cloaked in daggers of sharp curses
and disguised by images of broken glass
yet soft, underneath my feet, once I tread beyond the trees
I walk into the forest
and it welcomes me
it beckons me
further into the glade, I sink and
it's like slipping deeper underwater
yet I feel like I'm only breathing more air.

Lazy Sundays
after sleepless nights,

in a slump, though
nothing's done

the list is long, yet
we pause and slow,

letting the urgency flow
to return to our ways of comfort,

if only for a while
and let ourselves dream

just one night longer.

The quiet tapping of small bare feet echos from the hall,
as the door creaks open and
the smell of pancakes follow.

It's the holiday season, and later
cookies with prints from children's hands
will be baking in the oven.

The dog will need to be bathed
after rolling in the mud and snow outside
but dad will do it for me, while the kids laugh.

Morning kisses and
"see you later" hugs and
"I love you" looks and
all the little things
lying around the house
create a living scrapbook of what our family has made,
how we have grown
to fill this house, and make it our home.

I often remember, and remember fondly
how the fog rose off the surface of the water
in great tall fingers reaching for the sky-
when it was almost still night, the sun making barely a shadow
and the cool kiss of dew on my skin
from the humid air
as even the breeze had not yet awoken.

I remember how the boats and oars
looked so vibrant in their color
as that gray shroud of morning sleepiness
laid a drowsy shade over the greens and blues
with a gentle hand.

They were red and yellow
and as we glided quietly towards the sunlight,
sparkles rippling alongside the waterbugs
and I thought to myself
this all I would ever hope for.

She remembers how the coffee smelled in the morning,
and the hugs her father gave her.
Little things
like the pitter-pattering of dog paws
on linoleum floor.
It is perfect in the memory, in its simplicity
the repetition part of its beauty
and she misses it
though she knows it is a place
she cannot return to again.