poetry is

poetry is
the form and the subject
microcosms of life preserved —
pressed flowers between leaves of a book
details distinct as folds between petals,
like the white ones i saw with my daughter today,
paper thin near sheer like garlic peels, though scentless,
and almost still in the summer day, the motionless interim before, between,
the rain and wind. seconds of pause,
calm.

poetry is
the hurting, hurting, healing
words unsaid for years until,
over a freshly dug grave, one is brave
enough
to step forth
begin again, tentative, and then,
a bridge is built, slat by slat, shaky, with time more
sturdy, secure, as siblings and children make up for
lost time,
initial space shared, foreign, becoming
hands clasped and a full embrace and a seen and known, beloved face.

poetry
new and old juxtaposed
on new york city roads
limestone, brick, carvings, fire escapes,
alongside gleaming glass metal glistening, only natural thing about it — that it scrapes
the sky, and sometimes, beneath
morning fog it lies.

poetry
contradictions:
seamless and bursting at the seams;
broken, spilling, like pomegranate seeds,
and wholeness, a cell, a room that feeds its occupants, serves their needs

a forest for night terrors,
treetop for dreams
a galaxy, expansive,
and a dandelion swaying in the breeze

lines from a child’s lips — “the city’s lights our stars”
hand ruffling hair, pinching cheeks,
the quiet, the little, soft, sweet

life brutal, grueling, salty, sweat, defeat

so —

the good held up to light, a treat, to savor, seek,
to speak about and into being,
to wish it into truth with prayer and
poetry.