Has this house
of collections turned
a junkyard?
Has this house
of collections turned
a junkyard?
I wrote letters
on ephemeral moments
but get no response.
Please forgive me-
I’ve tried to disappear a
few too many times.
But what is greater
than the little leftovers
of light we each hold?
There’s sunlight behind
the curtains you, yourself, hung-
open them a look.
I’m sorry, my heart’s
a garden and I’m not good
at horticulture.
Home is a valley
amidst the bitter winter
it welcomes the cold.
Stars serve reminders
of a clustered sky filled with
unobtainables.
My hands grew flowers
where scar fields were once planted,
and now they blossom.
Our small home crumbled
but no one placed blame on the
broken architect.