By Your Side

I would like to stand by your side
as the worlds collide,
As the sky slowly falls,
my heart entwined, falls too.
I would dance in your solid embrace,
while heavenly ash clings to my face.
I wouldn't mind if the world fell apart,
if only I had you to keep hold of my heart.

Tureen

I am,
A soup tureen that hasn’t seen the likes of chowder, or minestrone or vichyssoise,
In ages. I’m empty. Sullied. Still sticky with the residue from vegetables.

I am,
A soccer ball that hasn’t seen the likes of grass, or children or even a cleat,
In ages. I’m deflated. Lifeless. Left bruised and drained in the back of your garage.

I am,
An acerbic old woman who hasn’t seen the likes of passion, or warmth, or her cycle,
In ages. I’m hollow. Barren. Still existing with the memory of miniature hands and feet.

I want soup. Not your soup, don’t touch me. I want my soup.
My steaming, torrid elixir, my soup with ferocious lions and dainty songbirds.
And I want air. Not your air, your gray smog—I want life and oh, I want to feel.

The Flight

Imagine the flight of one dusty flake,
From the blue azure atmosphere,
It’s perilous journey,
Among trillions and trillions,
Cold and wet,
In descent.

The time it takes to become,
To mature,
The time it takes to descend,
And dazzle a trillion eyes,
In splendid,
Unique,
Elegance,

Is consequential,
When one imagines,
The final leg of the trip:
Its soft, swift, gauzy landing,
Onto a woolen hat,
The pink tip-of-tongue,
Or into a misshapen snowball.

A journey.
Is this the end?
Does the little powdered crystal,
Have a chance?
Life for this luxurious flake is not,
In the distance traveled,
From cloud to earth,
Or either palm to target.