Each day is a small phrase

in a larger conversation

I seem to be behind in.

I jump the gun

but can never catch up

and my heart is often in my stomach

as I resign myself

to being out of place

and the odd one out.

I look back a little

and wonder how I come up with

the hopeful things,

the messages in moonlight,

the melody of a meadow

when I blink and all is bleak.

Is it question or statement

without punctuation

who can tell

how fitting

it is to travel to a house

that’s yours

just as a mailman’s route is his

or a highway to work is hers

a piece of real estate

not anybody’s

except for all the claims of time

and defined lines

just as an idea is theirs

and they are a they

inside two separate boxes

on a map

but inside one space

of heart that has blurry lines

It’s late and there is snow

resting quietly, taking the night’s moans

and spinning them into sugar.

I am fluffy and warm inside

where it is dark and the fire has gone out

and I am not waiting for whatever’s next.

This is the moment. The dark, the cold,

the inexplicable coziness. This is peace

and I’m not sure how long I can hold on.

It seems I’ve spent years chasing an image

that does not include the grey, aching,

moody wretch I am now- yet… peace?

Stories and diagrams and pictures

all stacked up in my mind or on my table

do not add up to the good I have now.

Yet tomorrow may find me sad and unable

to grasp the good as it flutters around me;

maybe when light has gone again… peace.