Poems

Keepsakes

When your mother died, I sent you a brace of dead twigs.

When your dog died, I sent you a dozen dried roses.

When your hamster died, I sent you a wreath of bones.

But when you died, my love, I sent you my heart,

Pinned to a checkerboard by a thousand cupid wings.

Dark earth and bright above

We’re flesh suspended between mud and stars.

Is the space between any less worthy?

You can’t have one without the other.

Worth is not decreed

By light or dark

But by the art of being.

Existence is the miracle we’ve all achieved.

How do we spend this gift:

Slinging mud or reaching for the stars?