I didn't use to believe in luck,
I even thought myself perpetually
unlucky
but now I see
that the universe has done me a
kindness by having us meet
I only hope that
their generosity would continue
to help me in my endeavor.

And if it doesn't,
then I will scour the ground
for every four-leaf clover
I will race to the bottom of every rainbow
for its *** of gold.
I will do everything I can
to stay lucky
so I might be able to keep you.

I worry that, without my luck,
I will not deserve you
or that the universe is using you
as a way to prove to me
I am not worthy
of all that I seek.

I always wished
that my hands could be as gentle
as the ones I watched around me.

Elegant and musical,
the hands of those I spent time with
seemed to glide over whatever
they touched.
They were never aggressive
never snatching.

They wanted nothing,
only plucked flowers gracefully
and lifted glasses of lemonade.

They never had to hold fast
to anything
never worried about
the precious things
being taken from them.

My hands have always been
rough and calloused
prepared to lash out
to preserve me and my life.
They are fighting hands,
grabbing hands,
loving hands.

They are made to last
to persevere.

My hands have been exactly what
I needed them to be
my wistful wishes of gentleness
were just that:
wishes of someone who wanted
something different for herself.

But my hands have aided me
like none other,
and I would not exchange them
or change them for anything.

The sparrow has crossed my path
and I hope she'll stay
longer than a fleeting moment
so I may appreciate her beauty.

She came to me
as most Texas birds do
when you're quiet and alone.
But she was different, I'm sure.

She was vibrant,
not at all the dusty hues of the others
I had come to know.
She was bright and intricate.

The sparrow was free to roam
she was the epitome of freedom
and yet she chose to stay
singing by my side.

And she could have picked anyone,
that little yellow sparrow.
But she flew and sang around me
always appearing again.

I couldn't help but feel
that as quick
as she had appeared
she would leave again.

But the sparrow sang
and in her song
assured me
that she would do no such thing.

She was mesmerized
by me.
You can fly, and yet chose not to,
she said. Why is that?

You are as much a bird as I am,
she told me.
All you have to do
is let go.

I considered her words carefully
I had never flown before,
never thought that I could.
But for her, I did.

Fingers numb with cold
the stars winking above
I kissed you
and tasted juicy Georgia peaches,
flushed pink like your cheeks
and sweet as anything.
The succulent taste coated my tongue
and I wanted more.
I felt you hesitate when I pulled you closer
but I kept my lips soft and exploring
so as to not scare you away.
My fingers wound into the curls
against your warm scalp.
They moved along
grasping at the little ringlets at the nape
of your neck
and you shivered.
You pulled away,
and buried your face into my neck.
Your breath against my skin
reminded me of
the warm Florida coast,
the sun radiant and bright
and the breezes humid.
I felt your heart beat
against me as the lull of the tide,
and as you blinked
your eyelashes
fluttered on my skin
like wind-kicked sand.

This could be the moment,
I thought.
This could be the moment
I fall in love.

Time should mean more to me,
I know.
I shouldn't write about what I've barely
come to understand,
but you, my love,
make words so easy
music so sweet.

Chivalry isn't exactly dead, not yet
and I can't help but think about
properly courting you,
stealing kisses when our escort isn't
paying attention
or writing you disgustingly cheesy love letters
that sound nothing like me.

Despite the short time
I've known you,
I catch myself thinking
about what it might be like.
If the world would be so kind
if Fate wouldn't intervene
if I could get to keep you.
My own little slice of paradise,
of heaven.

I must confess I'm not much of a
believer in what I can't see or feel
but you
pop questions into my head
abut even that.
How can there not be
something inherently pure and good
when you're with me?
How can I not believe
that we were meant for something more
when you feel so right?

Our lives have not been fair,
this I know.
But I think my hardship
might have been worth it
if they brought me to you.

My Grandmother's perfume
was always as sweet as the fruit
she loved to share with me
its rinds thrown from the deck.
We watched as the deer came out
to feast on the skins.

Her perfume came
in beautiful crystal
and her collection spread
all over the bathroom.
She hummed as she got ready
her song beautiful like the hummingbirds
we would fill a feeder full of nectar for.
And as we ate at the small wooden table,
she would whisper,
"Look, my love! Our friends have arrived."
and the hummingbirds would sip from the feeder.
I always felt that they were her kin,
those hummingbirds.
But it would not be a stretch
for my Nana to be blood
with all the beautiful things.

She showed me how
to pluck a honeysuckle flower
and extract the nectar carefully
so I would taste a drop.
In the springtime,
butterflies would flock to that bush,
and we watched from a distance.

She taught me
where the daddy-longlegs liked to nest
and reminded me that they
were harmless.
I picked the wildflowers for her
and she would place the little arrangments
in water on the table.

My Nana would make me coffee
so sweet I could barely drink it
but I did
because the sweetness was just as sweet
as her.

I loved spending time with her,
even if it was just a phone call.
The number 2 pad on my mom's
ugly orange phone
was my Nana's speed dial.
I called her every day.
Every day.
She would light up when
she heard my voice
and I would chatter on about
anything and everything I could think of.

I still remember
the songs she used to sing to me
when it was time for bed
and I was wide awake.
"I love you,
a bushel and a peck.
A hug around the neck,
and a barrel and a heap
and I'm talking in my sleep
about you."

My Nana
doesn't remember the words now
but as long as I have
a voice to sing with,
I will sing for her.
As long as I have hands,
I will write for her.
And as long as I have a heart,
I will love her.
Even after the day,
she doesn't remember me.
Even after the day
she doesn't see my face
and know who I am.
Even after the day
she doesn't know she ever loved me.

The sky is old, it is tired.
It is aching.

The sky is bruised.
It is blackest blue and deepest blood purple.
It is tearing and writhing and mashing.
It is molded by someone
who knows not of their own power for desire.

It is being destroyed and created at the same time,
it is being pushed and pulled and grabbed
by hands who have known little of gentleness
and have been overcome by violence
but are trying to be soothing.

Hands made for wielding swords
steadfast give up when attempting to weave flowers together.

But he has not given up.

He is immobilized-
lost in his own despair and pain
as he tries to create.
He is searching through things he doesn't quite understand
searching through himself
and his own power he has left untapped for many a year.

He is trying-
hoping to help build a world
where love knows no bounds
and hate is only as strong as those
feeble hearts who use it.

The End of Time has already passed,
and no one can see past it
no one knows whether he will succeed.
But they do know
that he will continue to try
to press on
until the last whisper of his soul is gone from this world.

I am waiting for the day
when we can all celebrate
as one people
united behind
he who tore the sky
and lifted it up again,
anew.