You hand me the sunrise in a cup,
and remind me of a secret - not so much
a secret, rather a memory that gave me
much joy, but it would mean almost nothing to you.
We are made of these, but I’m not sure that you’d
understand, though we all plant them for later times
and dark; sometimes heedlessly.
Here are a few of mine; see if you can
make heads or tails of them: radiator,
the lines of tree limbs buried in porous snow,
blush, white paper for drawing, winter, light
blue gown, snow piling by window, fern.
Lace, palms on oval road, mangrove, white sand
sticking to your sea skin, and laughter, lots of,
in our eyes, these stories, yarns for lacing
colored air, souls, friendships
and endless, auburn words -even
an angel’s zeal under a revolving fan.
Together a tangle of feathers, seeds
cached as beaded dreams for winter,
old warmths, to remember. I know
you have them too. This is what
I try to see when I look at you.