I wrote these between Thanksgiving and Christmas, knowing almost immediately that they were meant to be joined. I have not found a title as of yet(other than for the individual parts), but if something comes to mind while you are reading, please feel free to let me know what you think. Thanks for your support.
1. Dream Catcher
Is my notebook considered ephemera, when its
pages paper thin rip when pressed for information
conclusions in appreciation, though your work
is never done. Next you must rush home to
give thanks, sing praise in lack of punctuation
sitting here waiting, I wish my heart spoke
louder, spoke soft enough to hear yours beating
in run-on sentences and middle school notes.
There’s a smile on my face when I hear cat toys
jingle from rooms in which I am not, so I stalk around corners,
peeking to see my playful children with paws, remembering
the shuffle footed dance you played in our kitchen, MommaGrace
took off like lightning and I light up like the warmest
summer day when I think of you, windows open, I think
of your laughter, that smile that healed me, and the touch
that steadied my heart, along with my breathing.
Willing lines can still bring a smile to your face(I’m sure of it), no matter the distance,
it was you who taught me love and laughter. You were my first smile.
2. Walking Alongside Ada Monroe
I found comfort in knowing that these
lines don’t mean shit, or at least
they are not meant to. We see each
other through train of thought,
there was a poem about a train I hopped
but I can’t remember which one;
I wish I could. I miss you. You’re
the kind of beautiful I see when
I look out into the ocean, vast
and only fractionally understood, it’s
not for lack of effort, I get it.
I know the covers over your
eyes exist to tell me “It’s hard,
I want you to understand, be
PG13” on top of the sheets, waiting
whenever you need a laugh,
or cry, or strip naked all day tangle,
dream catchers I swore
I left in Hogwarts. Did you hear,
they’re tearing it down? My beard
as long as wizards, though I am
only this cold mountain, rooted and young.
This is going nowhere, or precisely where
it should, where the plot demands, and I’ve lost my script.