Tag: longing

one thin wisp of cloud

it’s midday.

i empty the used coffee grounds

from the press.

it’s too late now for

another cup.

i carry the

grinds to the compost;

walking barefoot through the grass

the air is thick with humidity

the lawn

feels damp underfoot.

i pause, gaze upward,

shielding my eyes

from the sun.

above me,

one thin wisp

of cloud.

it seems adrift, out of place.

can you see this?

wherever you are,

can you see this?

the shape of the cloud

is so feminine

in shape;

voluptuous, round,

gesturing in a way that is both crude

and shy way.

can you see this?

i feel out of place.

here in the yard,

on the grass soaked with humidity.

can you see me?

wherever you are,

can you see me?

i stand there until

the cloud

melts away into blue,

a rich blue,

a humid blue.

wherever you are,

can you see me?

​

bare branches

how far do bare branches reach?

i sometimes think about whether they remember where they have been.

they reach out to touch the moon.

it must be a long journey,

farther than the wind could ever carry

our human stories.

when the branches return,

they come back changed.

they never come back the same.

their limbs point out,

reaching for something they cannot name.

they reach out toward the stars

and the scattered bits of light.

they stretch into the darkness,

into old memories.

and when morning comes,

they are changed.

never quite the same.

their bare branches have witnessed something sacred,

they have brushed against the divine.