Category: poem

We picked them as children,
Seeing a pretty flower,
A rarity, a prize,
Running around with the stem,
Clutched in our fists,

Until we found the perfect spot,
The exact moment, to hold it up
To the sky, to the light, twirling it
In our fingers, thinking,
Dreaming, of what to wish.

Air filled our cheeks, our eyes clenched shut.
We puckered our lips, exhaling
Sending dozens of parachutes into flight,
Hope clinging tightly to each one,
Even if we never knew where they landed.

Now, they’re only weeds—a
nuisance, somewhere they don’t belong.
Interrupting our lawns, our gardens,
Choking the crops or the roses,
Stealing their water and sun.

But what if they’re the products
Of a parachute we sent off as kids—
Floating, flying, falling, finding right
Where to land, where to live, to grow,
In order to teach us, again, to dream, to hope,

Right in the place we need it most.  

You said all you knew
Of the piano,
Were the sad chords.
Of heartbreak, of
Disappointment.

I watched your reflection
In the smooth, shiny black
Of the music stand.
Your eyes stayed down,
staring at the keys.

If only everything was
black or white.
Right or left.
Half or whole.

You played without music,
Your ears led the way.
I stayed silent, wondering
If you could ever believe
Your talent was worth the pain.

Our eyes met, and held
But our walls stayed in place.
I could teach you the happy chords.
Or you could teach me the sad—
The best melodies are made from both.