(July, 2009)
So my two bookshelves collapsed, and in the middle of the chaos of rubble, torn books and shattered glass, I found my old magnetic poetry set.
Totally ignoring the task of cleaning up this ridiculous mess, I sit down with the board on my lap, looking at what survived:
look above
snow here
when
color melts our
dream will have to
take off too
if time could always be
a sky petal
they sizzle and shiver
as rain falls
like fire
all I ask from you is to
remember
cry between morning and night
did we keep a dance
which or how
my only wedding is
with nature
party
every day
month season
summer
springing
child
and green and
never
dark
I know there was more. All gone now. But this last one, the penmanship of which is, unmistakably, Vera's:
mom thinks a
happy love
