Days
There will be
days
that matter.
Today.
The birthday
of your mother.
All the days
between.
Checkin' things out by the river.
There are houses that
we live in. Bags of
bones and promise rivers
want
to wash away. There is
time, less left
to play with. Voices,
fingerprints and hearts
to throw. There are newborn
dreams to rock, mayflies
to catch and chase
with mirrors, Space
can’t help
but learn to fit
the way
We fill.
Why do you insist on
turning inward? Branches
curving in the wrong
directions. Limbs
growing heavy until you are hard
to move.
At night we share
an armchair rest. Swaying with
the trains.
The newest leaves
are heart-shaped, green like Spring
and shiny.
Why do you insist on
turning inward?