The cupboards are stuffed
but I am empty and full only of echoes.
Following a line from point A to point Q
and it makes little sense. He is just
off the path but I see him, feel him there.
I read about long journeys
and relate to the brutal cold of the Arctic.
Someone gifted me the warmth of a poem
today and it felt like it could be home.
“Thank you for loving me”
is like thanking me for a storm
that brings destruction, then a rainbow.
I smile while holding back a story of falling
because I do not know how it ends.
The Word Rummager 
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