He felt invisible in the museum,
as if he melted into the landscapes,
one of the faceless
in an Impressionist frame.
For a few hours, he would float,
lighter inside the thick walls
and careful lighting
than when navigating the real world.
In the museum, he saw rooms in cities
he had never been, stoic flowers,
and faces of women he felt he knew.
He felt innocence creep back in,
from someplace he once knew
and would rediscover every time
he walked into the museum,
where there was no judgement or worry,
just color and light and history.

My basket holds items of escape
like lip balm and books.
I like rifling through the pens,
cords, and hair ties remembering
my mother’s junk drawer and all its magic.

Every time you’d open that drawer,
it was like a different tableau:
green stamps, scissors, scotch tape, pens,
hairbrush, matches, pennies, notepads,
sandwich bag ties, tea bags, rubber bands,
recipes, and postcards all vying for place
in the chaos of the drawer.

I have that basket by my chair that seems
to fill my need to contain a little chaos.
But I also have a work bag that I overstuff
in case of, I don’t know, the apocalypse.
I carry it most days, like a hobo.

At any moment, I can come up with
band aids, lip balm, paper, pen, granola,
mints, antacids, headache medicine, tea,
hair ties, lotion, chargers, paper clips,
tissues, lint remover, nail clippers, masks.
I am sort of known as everyone’s mom,
always prepared. Except I’m rarely ready
for anything. But I like the planning.
The packing. Sorting chaos.

I can barely contain myself.

Layers disappear.
Years fade.
We could be Victorian or prehistoric.
There are no titles or expectations.

Light is warmth and definition.
The only guides are hip and hand.
Perfect words are left unspoken.

There is a moment of alignment.
We are enlightenment.

Today’s oasis is a fireplace.
Tomorrow’s could be Antarctica.
We are time with no need of place.

Dreams come to us fully formed.
We are explorers.
There is no need for worry here.
We are all that we need.

The wave of hallelujahs
crash thicker and rougher
some days, stripping away
things that do not matter

overcoming a tender spirit
that persists in reaching
for what is beyond the storm.

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.