At moments life stands motionless
As if to pause, for us to catch up,
tempting us to make sense of it
To slow itself enough for us to take hold of it,
I don’t always want to tip it, inspect it,
understand it, or see it’s underside.
Sometimes I don’t feel like seeing it at all.
But I will allow the breeze to tickle my skin
And the rain to wash over me
So that I may wake to it’s beauty once again


My fingers are made of glass;
Pain pulsating upwards like hot forks of lightening,
Can you see it run up my index fingers,
Like mercury in grandma’s old thermometer?
When the pain is gone
I become me again;
But without the pain,
My poems are empty,
my smile more faint,
How do I flesh out just the good?
How do I sift out sorrow-less moments like a snowy layer of finely dusted powdered sugar;
The memories that are most sweet
Are often paired with tartness,
Like the Swedes pair toppings of lingon berry on crepes,
43 years on this earth;
I cannot discard the bitter, but rather overpower it
Flesh out the hurt,
And relive, if only in a memory,
The first kiss of summer again