We were brave, whipping our shapes to abstract.
But we aren't like the seasons filling and refilling
into colors and scenes. No, we are not like change. We aren't like years placing and putting onto itself.
No, we are not like movement, touched but never visited. We aren't many things. But we are renters of overlapping happiness, splattered like ideas crossing the pages of novels. We are borrowed like the ground, growing land out of speck and splinter with shadows of sunsets falling on it, to shiny daylight
over it. Taking into and out of shapes until it runs
through to pieces of permanence and creation.
We were brave to be fragments of people
into a large memory of staying when changes can move.
YOU ARE READING
dirt & human
PoetryThis collection has the dirt for my grave and my soul for God but when it rains there's meaning for my muddy heart. (Some of the poems are older and published already, I moved them to this collection, so if you recognize a poem that's why.)
