Approach

Smooth
the feathered edges of my voice
my fingers trickle and watch
the light syrups around your smile

soon.

Raw
the stilted words I now pronounce
the quake in my stomach grounds
my toes tension-bent at the knuckle

here.

Crumpled
the wrongs that gave my brow furrow
the tiny pieces that un-grow
the pages where I wrote you into being
different than who you are

today.

Waiting
marking boxes every day
building life and loving stay
reaping more than what I’ve sown
but sowing the true

me.

Skip Right Through The Puddles

Come and sit, sweet child,
Your cheeks are rubbed raw,
your eyes are slits of sad.
Come feel the fingers of fair
as they drag across your scalp.

You can’t trip and fall into blame
anymore
When you skip right through the puddles you’re finding
You own the puddles
splashing your skinned knees
washing the dirty deceit from your wounds.

You are not used to me being here, I know
but I will never leave again.

Replaced

Acceptance instead of insecurity
Excitement over dread
Impervious over delicate
Integrity instead of bed.
Each replacement of twisted trait
Establishes character
You said
Each metamorphoses of late
Inspired instead of dead.

The Daisy: an elegy

There you sit on the windowsill,
the cold glass rubbing against your vase
as you stare through the pane to view
the waning sun.

You recall when the fog could be felt on your petals
the rain kissing your face like dew, the humid air
reaching into you from stem to tip
to soil.

You recall the rush of growing, giving your petals to passerby
blending between the other flowers, bending to kiss the bee
before yawning at the end of day
and sleeping through the darkness sea.

You were plucked late enough in life
losing the length of roots outside
stuffing into the crannies of this cramped blue vase
and gazing upon the eyes of the one who plucked you.

Here you sit on the windowsill, no longer
sunning, no longer
singing, no longer
swaying in the summer spring.

You want to return to the other flowers
You want to be resown.
You want to wither, watching them,
the flowers you are no longer.

But you have something they don’t have

the strength to carry these long memories
the scope to know that strife
is necessary to each pretty white daisy
to survive through all this life.