There are so many
beautiful pictures
because there are so many
beautiful things.
Like the rain on a windowsill,
while the sun still peeks behind
grey blanket-clouds,
or the movement
of a cat's yawn
before it stretches,
or the deep inhalation
as you're on the precipice
of something great,
or stumbling
over a small rock
and catching my balance again,
my sheepish smile screams for
a forgiveness that you've already given
by your chuckle,
or a tightening of my arms
around a branch
that may or may not
support the weight
I've gained this last year,
or my toes
and how they melt
into the sand
and melt out again,
or thinking there's silence
when really
a brook whispers softly nearby
and realizing it's been
speaking to you the whole time,
or a candid reunion
from a long-ago lover
who listens intently
and laughs loudly
like time told her to,
or hair freckled with snow
before it's freckled with droplets,
or the contentedness
of a dog to share a bed with you
and your book,
or the turning-off of a light
that waits to be alive again,
or the feeling of cold water
on a cold day
when the coldness of my friends
could not refresh me enough,
or a savory sirloin
on an empty stomach
at midnight,
or unneeded candlelight
at a modern dinner
with only the glow of company
for vision,
or the moment of understanding
of anything,
or the moment of happiness
even when I don't understand,
or silence,
real silence,
or sometimes, being alone,
or a book
that still smells like our last goodbye.
December 16, 2011
