You were a handful of cherries,
A summertime kiss,
A savored mouthful
Some bitter, some sweet.
The colors shift from deep to bright
Unpredictable. Temporary. Ever-changing.
A stem to be tied
A tantalizing tongue-twister
A point proven and forgotten.
Fun for a moment,
And then a moment passed.
And yet every cherry has a pit
And, sooner or later,
each handful ends.

A bead of sweat trickles down my neck as I shift anxiously,
left foot, right foot, a little hop.
Two cars, barely intertwined, stall my walk home.
Five-years-old and impatient, I wait for my mom
across the street, getting the unofficial accident report
from the crossing guard.

The high wall on our right conveniently blocks out the sun,
My friends and I giggle at our independence
as we walk to Girl Scout Troop 462’s meeting.
In sixth grade we think we know how to check our corners
How to be cautious and how to be safe,
but we know we still have to wait for the crossing guard.

The sun glares down as I squint across the street,
just free of sixth period, I've started my walk home,
But the boy from science class is goofing off with his friend.
He doesn’t notice me and I try not to stare,
I want his attention but four lanes separate us
thanks to the crossing guard.

Sophomore year means I walk home with a boy holding my books,
and I hold his hand even though it’s hot out.
Those four lanes mean nothing
to me and that boy from science class.
I barely notice as I’m motioned to stop at the curb,
and the crossing guard holds up her sign.

Tears, not sweat, wet my face as junior year ends.
I drag my feet on the walk home, and carry my own books.
I am not paying attention to curbs or crosswalks,
but when I reach her street,
she gives me a smile and motions for me to wait,
And the crossing guard helps me on my way back home.

We round the corner the last week of August
in the family car packed full with my college necessities.
I wait anxiously for the light to turn green,
So I can begin life in “the real world,” be independent.
In my haste and excitement,
I don’t notice the crossing guard.

I don’t walk home anymore.
With adulthood comes a car and an insurance bill,
and the sweat and tears come for different reasons.
One day she was gone and never came back.
And when she died I had to remember
to check my own corners before I cross the street.

No one counts the grains of sand
until the last few abandon
their perch atop the glass.

We care not for the song
until the final strain of notes
fade to an eerie silence.

Unnoticed goes the sun
until its journey ends
as it kisses the western horizon.

I suppose what I mean to say,
is in a world that keeps turning,
with people that keep moving,
and things that keep changing,
we do not notice the blessings,
the beauties, or the opportunities
until their time here is done.
In absence, we find appreciation,
but in normality we find forgetfulness.

But fear not the passing things,
for in a life full of closures,
with oncoming completions,
and repeated resolutions,
in the endings we find the beginnings,
the restarts, and the chances anew
when they are least expected.

So fear not, for the hourglass will turn
and though time will not stop for you
it will also never end.

When the ballad fades to silence,
it trades places with another tune
that you will be sure to hear.

And with every sunset comes a sunrise,
so do not forget the sun tomorrow
as it caresses your skin all day long.

The girl in my favorite jacket
with my exact shade of hair.
The one with my same freckles
and that unamused stare.

She knows me more than anyone
and, at the same time, not at all.
So many noted, collected traits
but without the final call.

Kind or fun or silly
or whatever I may seem.
I know each of the parts of me
But what do they all mean?

The mirror shows me what I know
from outside, not within.
My reflection, both in and outwards,
leads to no conclusion.

I stare at them in earnest
with hope to realize
and as they stare back I ask myself,
what color are my eyes?

No stranger to brokenness,
Outward or within.
No foreigner to our damages,
Or any type of sin.
He rubbed shoulders with the beggar,
And broke bread with the lame.
The harlot and the tax collector,
He loves them all the same.
So when you think you’ve gone too far,
Cast your eyes on them.
And know the life of Christ, our God,
Who was poured out for all men.
Don’t listen to the enemy.
Whatever he may say,
And know whenever God saves “them,”
Well, we are those “they.”

Shadowed thoughts drowned out
By the brilliant light of day,
Cowering in crevices
So that they still may stay.

They’ll wait until the sun goes
Until they reappear,
Yet as dusk turns into darkness
They re-emerge as fears.

And their secret tactic
As they try and get to you?
When it gets dark outside,
It gets dark inside too.