Ode to the End of the World
The road is long,
it arches softly like the back
of a cat on a hot day
basking in the sun
and I think we’re lost.
The sun is setting
or maybe it’s the middle of the
day, but the birds —
they are awfully quiet.
I think the trees are
drowning and the dust
is hurting my eyes
but you can hold my hand
(please hold my hand)
Time is a slipping like so
much sand through my fingers
my legs are tired our legs
are tired. Come, we should sit down but
I love you and I love you
and that is all there is
The Wind
The leaves are dancing; a waltz
with the Wind in late afternoon.
For a beat they are gentle, then
the Wind missed a step —
she is clumsy, experience can only
teach so much. The leaves don’t seem
to mind, they press on to the sound
of the bell. It tolls in the distance,
and the Wind finds her footing,
if only to tell the leaves of Her stories
— of children playing and lovers
dancing, of the hymns they sing to find
their God
but they do not know (and for this,
the Wind laughs) that their God is all around them;
hiding in the whisper of the Wind
for this is her very own hymn —
in the dance of the leaves,
and the beat of the waves as they find
the shore, again and again and again.
Quiet now, the Wind slows her waltz
and whispers something for
only the leaves to make out.
It can be only love, truth be told.
This is all she knows to do.
Ode to a Home I Do Not Have
Four walls, a table and two chairs the
doors make do with the hinges —
they laugh, but it sounds,
to the untrained ear, like a creek.
A fire burns somewhere off-stage,
they can’t quite tell if it’s the
mantle or the heart of the girl
upstairs.
Regardless, it is warm and
the walls are painted ivory; the
curtains hang in green. A bookshelf
stands tall in the corner, not dusted – but
not unclean. One shelf boasts stamps and
pens and envelopes;
the books are read to be shared.
A cat is stretched out on the floor
by the window — her black fur
kissed brown by the sun.
She would swallow the sun if
she could — I would give it
to her on a plate.
The present and the past meet
in the middle, here. Nothing lasts
forever, but for now feels long enough.
Stay here for now, please.
Come — the kettle is on.
