There are days where the words are thick:
then, they unwind, spindrift on the remnant waves
unbuckled by the wind, shifted by the falling
sounds of time passing.
A child cries in the quiet dark,
her tears are warm on her cheeks
and then they dry into tiny
starched spots on her thick pillow.
And in the sunlight that pillow dries
flies visit its brightness, leaving footprint poems
the spider reads with interest
her long threads twirling through the wind.