April 2, 2018

Who would I be if I were empty?

a clear glass vase glittering the light
an open window bare to breeze and scent

a newly built nest hollowed in down
a white sheet of paper spread beneath the pen

a newborn’s eyes slowly widening
a freshly made bed, covers turned

a painted canoe tapping against the pier
a field in black folds, newly churned

an empty stone tomb awash with morning sun,
and the buried one within—gone missing.