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The Dwelling Place
manifestations
of my soul: resilient
purple crocuses
resurrecting through
snow; serenading swallows
perched amidst blossoms;
petrichor (the smell?
of parched earth after rain); pink
peony petals
softer than trickling
water; the scent of grandma's
pillow–fragrant and
familiar like
honey for bees; tumble-dried
fabric pulled above
the knees, lavender-
scented and snug like sunny
meadows; words that go
down like chamomile
tea, the soft f and v in
“forgive”; cuddles–the
cousin of warm baths,
hugs–the loving aunt; cassette
tapes clicking into
place, Dan Fogelberg’s
mellifluous musings; the
invigorating
slap of exhaust-filled
air and untamed hair; Spanish
as smooth as asphalt;
meteor showers,
shimmering streaks across pearl-?
strewn skies; summer nights
as sweet and fluid
as watermelon drippings;
forests on forearms–
trees erected by
goosebumps–the dwelling place of
hungry wolves; howling
at the harvest moon,
they say "I love you to the
moon and back, always.”
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