It never occurred to me to kill
anything, to consider color
in such a way that didn’t
reflect the sky. My stones
were saved for rivers, wishes,
wanderings where I might
need to know the way back,
might need to track my steps
with something older than my
own shallow skin. Begin
on page one, and trace a finger
along the words you love best.
Memorize their place. Dog-ear
a page or two, a tiny triangular
wave to call you back. Track
your own fingerprints, heart
-beats, song, when you see a
smudge, the budging of a cover,
the wonder underneath that
never fades. Blades
of grass made proper bookmarks.
Bandaids work, too. Library card.
Business card. Cocktail napkin.
The curious glue that holds to
the years spent being
Written for Poetic Asides.
Everything is making me teary today.
Awww. Sorry, love. I am a bit of a hot mess, myself.
Oh! So much beauty in this piece, De… Lovely!