It’s dark and crickets are the only sound
coming through the open windows.
A light breeze pushes curtains
so that a sliver of starlight seeps in.

The lush hills of the canyon and
sun warming my skin are but memories
when all is covered in night.

I don’t speak much of these moments,
solitary and sparkling,
because some of the best things
are felt and left unspoken.

It feels oddly familiar.
A cool breeze on warm skin.
Spring, no matter what the season.
But removed a bit, like rain on the window.
(Which side is the wrong side?)

It feels new somehow, every day.
The same path, but marked with
new growth, fresh blooms.
I am helpless in almost every way.
I would not change any of it.

It feels inevitable.
A gasp unbidden after holding
my breath far too long.

Today is a fluffy green
laden with morning fog,
a breath of love carrying
the weight of storm clouds.
We are in the moment
between raindrops,
held aloft by something
we didn’t ask for
but found anyway.
This is life bursting
quietly as dusk nears.

Smooth lines of marble in a room
with too little air and too much light.
I wonder if the statues breathe better
at night when they can’t be seen.

What power of man can hold us in place
and feel stripped bare without mercy
while we crave more of the same?

The garden is just outside
if we can push ourselves through the gate.

Monday is being a girl arriving
at a picnic with a muffin in a paper bag
while other people unpack
beautiful baskets of cheeses, breads,
grapes, fried chicken, deviled eggs,
berries, nuts, salads, cakes, plates,
cloth napkins, silverware, glasses, wine,
lemonade, books, and blankets
to spread beneath the heavenly branches
of a blooming spring tree.