Pockets

There is a hidden fabric to every day

that holds all preciousness close—

secretly resting untouched, until

you graze it—

swiftly, tenderly;

clutching it—

purposefully, desperately;

never taking

or replacing, it
is folded
into the contours
of this skin-and-bone-sewn soul

where I allow

only

your
hand
to reach in.

Grow

I was too small

to hold it all;
my soul needed an overhaul.

The dirt was dry,
the daisies died,
regardless of the tricks I tried.

It was a drought
that cleared it out
and set me on a turnabout.

New seed is sown,
fresh water flows—
it’s time to let my one life grow.