a box of spilled crayons

Just yesterday,
I read Li Po: “There is no end of things
in the heart,” but it seems like things
are always ending – vacation or childhood,
relationships, stores going out of business,
like the one that sold jeans that really fit –
And where do we fit in? How can we get up
in the morning, knowing what we do? But we do,
put one foot after the other, open the window,
make coffee, watch the steam curl up
and disappear. At night, the scent of phlox curls
in the open window, while the sky turns red violet,
lavender, thistle, a box of spilled crayons.
– Barbara Crooker

osnak tzadok
osnak tzadok