She Collects What She Can Hold In Her Hand
It’s the ephemeral
that intrigues her—
shared laughter, tears elicited
from a story, stars, meals
cooked and eaten,
phases of the moon, the hope
of seeing the first spring bud unfurl.
As a child, she kept
part of her lunch money,
saving to buy nesting toys—
dolls from many nations,
a toad, an egg, a dragon, a cat.
She’d open them
line them up, big to little,
always amazed at how small
the smallest one could be.
She put them back, one inside
the other to change
her perspective.
As an adult, she buys boxes—
metal, wood, paper , clay.
Boxes she can hold in her palm.
She might fill one—
a tiny shell, stone, pearl,
marble, coin or cat whisker.
Some she leaves empty.
Sometimes she opens one.
Roaming Galaxies
She was never tethered to the earth,
all her ancestors long gone, her mind
stretched out toward galaxies,
our conversations unexpected universes
of diverging converging thoughts.
I travelled with her words, got lifted up
to cross horizons, learned constellations.
Or, we’d hunt crawdads,
turn over the obvious, surprised
in the discovery of depths.
She’s gone now, out into the ethers
where she always roamed.
I hide under rocks, mud
draws me inward, without
her to point out the stars.