The world exists in tiny spots
where we can only see a portion of what is there
and we long to know more
what we could understand about ourselves if we opened them up to peer inside
where stars and fireflies point us to homes beyond humans
She cries subtle tears that slip between
where Her nose and soft cheek meet
like sun spots on photos made facing the west in the late evening
he spews dropletts of spittle and yells at Her gathering strength
the last swallows of earl grey in a perfect, white tea cup after a long conversation and three lumps of sugar
punctuation at the end of a sentence it took ages to imagine and courage to write
he flips a dime in a fountain with all the other wishes
and of every freckle on Her face, her son loves the one on Her temple the best
a red light appears and a Poet pours words in a microphone
dark circles on the sidewalk mark the travels of gum chewers and litter bugs
or forwarnings of rain before it's really started
the first drop of blood in a long fight
absently, She twists the gold stud in her ear
the world suggested by the depth in your Best Friend's eyes
means that spots never tell the story
of time and trial and truth.
CML 6-13-11
for a Friend.
