TUESDAY: LAUNDRY DAY
the words come so clearly
I can almost feel them twinkling on my tongue
and turning into crystals
or smatterings of fairy dust,
and they fill my head with the longings
of a poet’s soul.
the longing is deep
like a hollow tree trunk covered in moss
and fills me with shame and splendor
The patterns dance across my tongue
like a firefly on a dusky summer night
and my mind’s eye chases them
prancing over dry riverbeds
singing and sighing with delight.
I long to be both the pen and the muse
to spread myself across the empty spaces
in the visions of
beauty and solitude
like a goose spreads its startling song
across the crisp morning air
and then the baby cries
or the wild one chants my name rhythmically,
so I surrender to the poetry of their voices
and hope the words may come back
after the laundry is folded
before my cheeks are caressed
by the pillow
and my arms engulfed by tiny lips
kisses light enough to make me fly
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