your shattered bits fixed clean. Not because your heart
can’t find an empty room to start over. Not because you're
not strong enough to lift the bulk of even a small disappointment.
Not because of a hurdle your body can't cross and not because escape
is easy and not because you don't carry the words to turn it into art. You do.
But sometimes, it's too hard to make it pretty, lavish a moonscape
with anything else but more rocks. So pile it on. Make a new
dress with all your unmended patchwork. Let the threads ruffle and sway.
Tear a path from the broken woods and weave your weary self my way.
The birds you feed in their hungry hour.
The “sorry” you find in its buried womb.
The body you love when it’s losing power.
The hand you extend in the darkest room.
The words you shape to make the call.
The obstacles you fling aside.
The steps you take before you fall
as the world, pointing its thumb, asks for a ride.
What matters is you stop, roll the window down,
say, “I think there’s space for you. Hop in.”