Like the pile of books on my nightstand,
like the ever-falling leaves
in the yard,
my worries accumulate.
Within each there must be a vein
of leaf, or word, or paragraph, or
perfect autumnal hue that
would show me how to
shake off these worries
like a wet dog, or waterlogged branch
in a shudder of wind, or mote
of dust on a butterfly's wing...
If only I had time to sort
through this wretched mess.
I didn’t get you roses from Ecuador, nor one of those cards you grab, in a rush, at the checkout line...
On the rooftops of Kyiv we master the circle dance, the feel of wood that can still support our weight.
Mom used to warn me that too much of anything —piety, vegetables, even reading—can be harmful. But growing up, I brushed my teeth irregularly at best. In the chaotic mornings, no one had time...
