I’ve traveled
the loneliest stretch of road
without leaving the sofa

It’s a place I know well,
one of division
and a gap where hope should be

People leave and don’t come back
the same, sometimes plastic,
sometimes with pieces missing

I’m stuck in place,
pleading through a Sunday afternoon
to a God whose plans seem muted

A church lady recently told me
times of struggle happen
right before good things unfold;
I must be careening toward a masterpiece.

There’s nothing pretty
about those times when you’re waiting,
the times between the things
you have to do and want to do,
the times you know and you don’t know.
Waiting is agony when you’re not sure
if it’ll be fresh flowers or a stab to the heart.
Waiting gives you time to create
elaborate scenarios that’ll never happen.
You don’t notice the breaths you take
under the great weight of waiting
are shallow until you’re dizzy.
The air between moments feels heavy,
like the pressure can be measured
best in underwater terms, and what’s odd
is that the sinking or swimming
is surely a disaster and a relief.

A little chilly this morning so
I pulled my blue corduroy jacket on
and felt ensconced in a safe navy cocoon,
where I could hide my inadequacies
and walk with a purpose I don’t really have.

I always used up more of the blue crayons
before any others in the box as a little girl.
I think I’ve always had more skies
than people or places or things in my view.

My steps are actually little prayers,
every few strides a new one for someone
or for myself, interspersed with a few
of gratitude. Sometimes it’s a feeling
more than words in my head.

It’s lunchtime and it’s an empty expanse
with just a few trees and birds for company.
I have work to get back to soon but for now
I can sit in blue, with warm sun and cool air.

A few steps upwards,
the lake was very still and
rain had just passed, leaving
remembrances on the pines

nearby some rustling
leftover leaves from the fall
but no voices or movement
besides ours, a quiet thrill

greater than the sum
of spring rain and empty boats,
scanning acres of rock left behind
after a forgotten upheaval

long ago in a familiar pattern,
where lines cross and disappear
the way rain falls into flowers and hair
and small smiles, and they all grow.

Today was room enough
to move and eat too many toffees,
waiting for the rush that never came
but instead pleasantly surprised
by a warmth creeping over me
and behind me pushing me into
a sunny afternoon, like a busker’s spring.

I think I’d be lost on Second Avenue
if let myself see all the things he wrote:
fire-eaters, acres of glass, marshmallows,
lips, and funeral homes, as well as things
I see: flags, men rushing redundantly, birds,
hands, and church spires on Second Street.

How we look is not exactly soul or sorrow
but tired with a bit of curiosity built in.
There is a smile echoed in words pressed
together like wet leaves, never to part.
I reluctantly greet spring, as maybe I am
allowed to bloom a little. If I can shimmy,
maybe the rest of me will come apart too.