If

 

 

You toss me watercolor daisies,

when my hands would conjure you a garden

of blazing bouquets, if you hint just the least.

For one minute, if you’d care at all.

 

You sing me listless tunes you’ve worn,

when my fingers would line out such symphonies

of sounds never heard, if you join just the least.

For one minute, if you’d sing along.

 

You press crumpled paper into my fist,

when my purse bursts seams wide with gold-full,

of riches never seen, if you’d open just the least.

For one minute, if you’d only let go.

Bruised

Chosen

I breathe into you.

Rest as I bandage weal and wound

mark, mangle,

bend and break.

A tiny bruised blade of grass.

I brace on pillars of stone,

bind against stanchions of truth,

guard with promise of amends.

Quietly I whisper peace,

arouse what smolders and seethes,

reignite to consume,

dare live yet longer,

in hope.