Midnight falls in sandbags on my chest, piano covers of old favorites reverberating past the old grandfather clock as it chimes:
Open your eyes.
I am sleepless on the living room carpet, knees held against ribs once broken, healed wrong--bones bent too close around a heart prevented from growing the way dandelions spring again and again from beneath mower blades spinning, cutting the lawn once a week,
sunshine blooms stubborn as my stifling ribs. And my persisting heart. Emily Dickinson once claimed: “hope is the thing with feathers,” yet my chest aches with the weight of it’s elephant existence bearing down as the moon travels slow across an expanse of flickering stars
too endless for small minds to comprehend-- and it’s all so much and so present that I can’t help biting my nails at the importance of hopes, wondering how they’d fare on a scale, countered against infinity itself.