Here, There is Pixie Dust

Everything I Never Told You

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Sometimes I am only interested in small things.

The chocolate bar. A hot bath.
The turned down corner of a book page

This is not unhappiness.
Yet, still I dress in layers
of sorrow.

I wrap a scarf around my heart like a tourniquet
to keep the darkness from bleeding out.

It’s winter inside of me,
but the frost has not yet taken over.
My soul still hints of blue birds,
jazz notes, Monet paintings.

My mind’s attuned to spring.
I hide it in the closet for later.

It’s always a balance regardless of the season.

There’s still daisies in need of planting.

Leaves in need of raking.

Tonight, restlessness breaks
like a coconut, open windowed,
near.

Where is serenity?
For weeks its been poetry,
Chet Baker, and Cheerios.

I grow weirder with each passing year,
more aloof.

I long to flame the wind
with a strike of a match

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