I come to you again.
Always do.
And sure as eggs,
You’re always here,
Right where I left you.

I bring you the mundanities that weave me together;
I hope they’re beautiful in their ordinariness.

Pointillist.

You know that painting,
The one of the people in the park?
Like that, my mundanities.
Like if I step back one day,
My moments will be arranged into a perfect pattern of great and universal significance.

Having a daughter.
Tasting an orange.
Holding.
Being held.

Writing a little heart song when I should be asleep
The words of my whims dotting the landscape
While the dog smiles and snores at the foot of the bed.

Oh, look, I’ll say.

I see it now.

i know that, at some point, i’m going to be inside a house by the sea. the waves will crash and engulf my ankles as i stare out into the endlessness of the water with a notebook and pen in my hand. i’ll write poetry in the sand and wash the past out of my hair with sea foam shampoo. i’ll toss my phone into the water and never drunk-dial a past lover again. my friends will never hear my voice again, but they’ll get dozens of handwritten letters.
or i’ll be thirty-three and dancing around a clean kitchen with messy hands and bare feet. i’ll be covered in flour and chocolate and when i glance at the clock, it’ll be one p.m. for ten hours. too early to pick the kids up from school, too late to take a nap. perfect time to bake some cookies, or some brownies, or some muffins. i’ll have the windows open and i won’t care if the neighbors see me with my tangled hair and bare face.
or maybe i’ll be tucked away in a cabin in the Rockies. i’ll keep my hands uncovered just to feel the bite of the cold, but i’ll wrap up my warmth in every other way. i’ll dig thoroughly through the snow and hide my prized treasures under frozen mounds, never to be seen again. i’ll watch the playful foxes from my window and giggle like a child when they jump face-first into the wintery blanket surrounding them. i’ll pretend i’m a clever mouse- too smart for foxes- and i’ll hide in my burrow with my cup of hot tea and my obnoxiously fuzzy socks.
i’ll be blameless, confident in my happiness, and ready for each day. i’ll be the hanging painting in the back of the museum- my beauty only beheld by those who are eager to look for it. and i’ll be so lovely.
God has made me prophetic in very small ways

Rain is fodder
food for hungry puddles
when the sun is out
they waste away to nothing

His crown sat bent -
    and it looked quite odd
          on the shady side
          of his sparse baldhead

His ego reigned
     while his daughter sweet
          could not make the move
          to get past her dread

His aproned slave
     dared not make a sound
          to defy the rules
          'til he made her dead

His cranium
     suffered sudden blows
          when an illness struck
          with the news ahead

He spat in barks
     telling all who came
          they should breathe their last
          and he died instead

Meandering through my memory
Mangled, malleable history
Misty, muddled mysteries
Wistful, wondrous willow trees