The collected things
with me for the time being
that I’ve made or found.

Years of making things,
trying to make sense of days—
sometimes a blank mind.

The found and lost love,
the glory of everything—
in the time we have.

If I had a yard
I would burn the paper stars
that I made last year.

Deep secrets and all,
on my interior wall—
hazy morning sun.

Closed-in August days,
falling asleep to rainstorms,
waking to dark skies.

Under the cold night,
from behind the scrubby pines,
sun feels its way in.