In my house,

there’s lots of fuzz and woody things

and sometimes too much quiet.

In my lap,

I tend to fiddle with my hands

and fight the urge to describe everything.

In my yard,

a bird has walked across the snow,

leaving little prints that look like arrows.

In my cup,

I like to swirl hot liquids

that make my tongue celebrate being alive.

There’s no helmet for me

so I struggle with the weight

of all that falls

and lands in my hair,

terrors pinned in place

like corporal punishment

or any rank Tuesday.

Let’s eat like cavemen

and maintain our sense of childlike wonder;

maybe we won’t have to forage

for plants or letters or affection

or other silly attachments

after the next big bang.

Rain tickled brown leaves

lingering in the quiet

before tasseled weeds

peeking over the guard rail

waved and beckoned in the sun.

I threw out my squishy heart

and sucked in all the toxic developments,

exhaling into a blood-red sky.

.

I don’t see much beyond my toes,

but I know there’s more out there

than common genes and mislaid dreams.

.

The wise woman in the muumuu at Wal Mart

was right: days are long, years are short,

and we pass down suffering like fine china.