Reading Time: 1 Minutes
All we have are the pieces of days we collect
like tulips in a jar on the kitchen table—
the tart taste of wine from a metal cup
on a picnic with a friend,
the way yellow chalk coated the fingers
of our favorite teacher.
We did nothing to deserve these denim skies,
the red-tailed hawk circling
like a halo above the shaken world.
Someone said every poem is an elegy,
I think every poem has a hidden stanza—
This hour under the late autumn leaves will pass,
loneliness is the room you’ll return to,
but not now, not yet.