I carry my cup
with me always
gathering as I move
through the world
filling it with things
named and waiting to be named
described width and breadth
scent of memory
like a scar that still
aches when it rains
raking my fingers through
as details fall from the tips
like drops of water

and if you were to look
you would shake your head
why would anyone
keep those things
why does this make me sing
and that leave me
feeling as though a cold wind
has blown through
leaving me hollowed out
and crumbling at the edges
how can I hold that feeling
of standing on a mountaintop
ready to fly in starlight

it never overflows
no matter how much I pack in
heaping one shiny thought
on top of another
nor leaks though crazed and cracked
when the world turns dark and ugly
and words are sharp and bloodied
I turn to my cup and sift
through the river rocks
and polished glass
rubbing them between my
hands til warm
as though they live
and in my mind
they do