4/27/24

Between the busy of there and the duties of home
is the container you hold only for yourself.
One day, perhaps, you allow enough room
for an apple snail, for an echo sigh, for hearing your own voice
You speak, cautiously,
the space feels too delicate to hold:
whisper

Across the distance that isn’t there, I
am drowning in cicada song

My mind wanders–
hold it, please.

You venture, quietly, into the first words of a poem

Emerging from these shells
our wings are tender,
wary
listen…

© Jaime Greenberg, 2024