has no doors—
no in or out,
open or closed,
locked or unlocked
to keep you from
being poem.

No gates or fences, either.

More
like forest, really—
letting everything in, out,
without opening
a single latch.

The poem I’d give you
rests serenely
on the kitchen counter,
at home between
the cancer meds
and heirloom dish.

It accepts the rough road
of crumbs broken beneath it,
—a meal, a life—
that didn’t turn out
the way you, I,
or anyone
expected.

Think of it
as fragile but insistent longing
infusing your next breath,
hydrangeas behind the garage
caring less about their
profuse pink blossoms
being seen.