Little one, if you could only see
the other birds who’ve visited
your nest. The bright, the colorful,
the warmth left to welcome you.


The world’s a pot of boiling water,
said the monk. Don’t be the carrot,
nor the egg. Be tea leaves. Yes, you
will be changed, but you will infuse.



When she sings, it’s as if to three audiences:
the one sitting in front of her, the one
whose songbook she won’t let fade,
and one yet to be, having embraced the others. 


To take you apart is
to get you spinning
’round yourself once
more. My turntable.


I can still see my mother’s
first kitchen — it could fit within
her current countertop’s edges.
Creativity will fill any vessel.

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