Bite-site poetry with a dash of emotion. They go well with a hot beverage.  Enjoy.

Until death do us part
Love is in the details of your wrinkles.
It’s growing old and still holding hands.
It’s knowing he shouldn’t eat salt.
And where his favorite slippers are.
And why he can't say his dead son's name.
It’s wanting to live one day longer than you
so you’ll never be without love.

Hope pauses
A tiny snail
Made its way
So
Very
Slowly.
Across the street.
Half-way it stopped.
Too scared.
Too tired.
To move.
It did not feel the child’s hands.
So carefully it was picked up.
It only felt the soft grass
And relief of safety.
Hope comes from above.
The snail was sure of it.

Soul Dancer
She danced.
Not because her
Body moved
The way it should.
But because
Deep
Inside
Her
Soul
There was music
That no one else could hear.
And when she danced,
The notes within her soared free.

Hound
A wagging tail.
Soulful eyes.
Patiently waiting at the door.
What a dog gives
And what a dog takes
Is not equal in exchange.
How grateful that our
Canine beasts don’t regard
Reciprocity.
Instead, they love
And they lick
And they love
And lick
Until they are buried in the grave.

Growth
I have within me

A clandestine garden 

Nurtured with self-love.

The years have brought toxic soil.

But it did not kill my growth. 

More rain, than sun. 

But it did not kill my growth.

More loss, than friend.

But it did not kill my growth.

Instead, I bloomed around 

My silent pain and

Found my voice.

Heartbeat
My heart walks three steps behind me.

She's too cool to hold my hand.

But sometimes when the world is too big

or small,

She lays her head on me

Like she did when her head was full of little curls.

And our hearts connect.

One beat.

Holding hands.

Holding space.

Holding on.

A daughter’s gift
Flowers bloom
In
The
Middle
Of
A
Field.
You, a tiny body of exquisite squish,
all elbows and knees,
Make
Your
Way.
The sun's light aglow on your face.
A bouquet in your little fist
Held out
For me.
A present of love.
Gratitude for the unspeakable
Everything
Between us.

Art
She stared at the brush strokes in the portrait.
Her face so close, she feared the guard might yell.
But she needed to see the mess
To believe the beauty she saw when
She stepped back.
A tear escaped.
For she knew
No matter
How
Far
Back
She
Looked
Her life would never be as lovely.