A solitary occupation
of creation and repose –
colors intermingle.
Their textures socialize,
and I am left holding the needle.
Wearing her brother’s arm made her feel good. Made her feel closer to family. It was with the hand at the end of this arm that she grazed the Maine coon, swatted the kids’ heads, thrummed the dog’s ribs. Sometimes at the end of the day, the arm had a hard time winding down.
Pine cones are delicious golden sections in conversation with sun.
They open arms to worship Shams, their old dry bones symphonic.
Pine cone prayer takes its time. If we have patience, we will persevere.
Fresh figs split easy in the hand
Inside are tiny humans rooted in the skin
Heads bumping up against other heads
It is the overpopulated world turned outside in
If we lived this way, locked inside the skin of Earth