and not all find the surface.
stay here, get lower,
go deeper, let it sink, let the mind anchor
let the breath work and the heart beat
and the music swell and the words which form
beneath your fingers swell as well and the words and jazz
and night breeze and occasional mosquito, there’s life force in there, too—
What’s my niche?
You don’t deserve to know;
not yet. You haven’t done the nestling
required–but don’t worry.
You spend so much time
in your own palace that it doesn’t allot for that feeling
of normalcy. And when it comes,
it comes like waves
like cold shower sprinkles on hot summer days
like the scent of lavender laundry swinging in the breeze
like sweet trampoline nostalgia
coming back to the mind, antiquated
memories of mishaps and reckonings
not doing everything perfectly
& still forgiven.
Sometimes all that remains
is the jazz and the nighttime.
The cool clean carpet
and my back against it
breathing in the night air and
The reader brings his or her own perspective to a poem and gives it meaning: