depths of joy

If I leant myself on your shoulder
I might never lift my head.
The direction of heaven pulls us
from across, down, towards, above—
the warm, ragged render of a Venetian building;
the patchwork of St. Mark’s Basilica
born of borrowed pieces.

I sense your loveliness from an ocean’s length,
my dove that circles and lands on you,
and I know that we are asked to land, too.
When your light brings me into lightness
and to know you is to trace my home
back further than our gathered lives
I’m convinced that heaven has many
ornate entryways.

In my passion to get it right
don’t let me lose sight
of the folded feather duvet
in the fifth-hand hotel closet,
the oddly shaped spoons,

the lavender and rosewood hand soap
in the service station bathroom,
and this cobblestone—
tipsy on too much history
yet giving.

I glance at the rolling hills
and then I gaze into them;

we are made just as unevenly,
just as perfectly.

Spoiler

I’m struggling within myself while writing these poems, but I sense that this is good for me lmao. I haven’t written creatively officially for a few years now, but it’s something I’m always circling and hoping to touch down on with minimal turbulence again—although it’s hard to predict how turbulent it’ll be. I just need to survive one poem a day ~