After work, I rest in the wispy warmth of a waning
December sun. On the table by the window, piles
of half-read books leer at me and I at them.
In the fading light, a hawk swoops by, hungry.
Hungry, I reach for my phone; looking down,
I spot a pile of dust, make a note to sweep it up
Last night I dreamt of the perfect opening line
to a poem that would, I had no doubt, piece
back together the crumbling world. It was a line
that drew you in, breathless, that made you drop
everything—coffee, that online shopping cart
one click from arriving at your door—and pay…
“The only difference between a flower and a weed is judgement.” – Wayne Dyer I have mistaken Ragweed for Goldenrod, alleyways for gardens, watched them torn out, make way for something better. I have asked what better is, been taught […]