Humming
“My brain hums with scraps of poetry and madness.” - Virginia Woolf
That is to say, I hold hope like a pear cupped in my palms, checking for bruises. It is time that makes us tender. My son sleeps on my chest, and the weight of his beautiful little life leaves me breathless. There are moments when I can hardly stand to be still and others I wish could be infinite.
That is to say, I dream of the mountains. Of fireweed where the old growth burned. Of steep climbs and warm rocks by the river.
That is to say I think of you like green. The hush of forest. A place to rest.
That is to say, not everything makes sense, but here is a love poem, I guess.