where the writers are
You Are What You Think About

What floats through my mind now

drifted through it one day in sixth  grade

and it was nothing more than kisses

spread upon an empty willow tree

spreading it’s dry roots into the horizon

searching for any sunlight or wisdom

enabling the seed wanting to grow

inside of her.


It’s possible to believe the nourishing

which happened when our eyes linked

on the porch where grandpa read

his folded New York Times and

waved to the passerbys who

cared to look at him sitting beneath

the window where years earlier

grandma took her life because

we will never know why