Puddle/ Popcorn

A stipple of mud&rain-dots,
a miniature mottled night sky;

a bare toe cradles just above,
flicking motes.

The water reacts in wrinkles-
popcorn folds stars melt along

like salt-butter specks in a brass
popcorn machine that tings

a jazz bell each time
the bucket brims

but does not spill:
a recluse mind’s meal.


Empty Cup

O at the Edges

Empty Cup

I set down my cup, pour
tea and think this day, too,
may never end.

With what do we quantify love? How does grief measure us? Nine days ago I wrote “My father is dying and I’m sipping a beer.” More words followed, but I did not write them, choosing instead to let them gather where they would – among the darkening fringe at light’s edge, in that space between the shakuhachi’s notes, in the fragrance of spices toasting in the skillet. In unwept tears. Everywhere. Nowhere.

Seven days ago I wrote “My father is dead.” Again, I chose to let the unwritten words gather and linger, allowing them to spread in their own time, attaching themselves to one another, long chains of emptiness dragging through the days.

If experience reflects truth, sorrow’s scroll will unravel slowly for me, and will never stop. I feel it beginning to…

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