Like broken homemade gifts,
meaningful once to us,
while we remembered why,
or the pretty pebbles
we gathered everywhere we went
Category: poems
She moves swiftly between her true age and my dreams.
Wearing youth in her calves
and worry in her brow.
I have false memories of furniture and places
Hopeful attempts at meaningful bookkeeping
The discarded oak leaves shone
as autumn’s fruits in the evergreen bush.
The rain pointed the way home and we followed,
I, on one end of the leash, and Bobo on the other.
It’s about what you do, but also what you don’t.
It’s about what you touch, what you smell, what you linger on.