O Lord, restore us to that garden—
we’ve forgotten the scent of roses.
That stain-glass mirror in our pockets
does nothing but expose us.

Rinse and repeat—the news cyclops,
its blind eye turned, tapering tears.
Catch and release—the news cyclone,
maelstrom of manufactured fears.

I don’t like giving you goodbyes
that fade too fast before my eyes,
so before I crash, I close them once,
and if I’m dreaming, pinch me twice,
then I open them to empty fields
where once were sparks and Ferris wheels,
but now lay the reminders of
convos, cafes, and diners, love,
and my reflection in your waves—
that open sky, that ocean gaze.

Shaky inhales of candle wisp
between eyelids pregnant pinching glass,
lantern blurs of paprika hair,
dancing in a dream in your living room.

I am calm within the chokehold
around my neck of the woods.
Like stormwater pooled in a parasol,
this unrehearsed disaster dance
might just rupture me by proximity.
For though my roof still holds above me,
my chest is caving in.

God, are my dreams too shallow?
My ceiling is not the stars,
my sky is not the universe.

Overestimating my footsteps
and limiting reality to imagination—

Walking slowly, running behind,
wishing we could slow down time,
water the sprig to bloom,lavender afternoon
to make us feel whole inside.

We’re finding it hard to let go,
slow mornings and espresso,
like watching the world spin,
or watching a whirlwind
scatter through a meadow.

Though my wings are clipped,
I sing of heaven’s sound,
before its lyrics fade away
into earth’s hollow ground.

Now with anchored feathers,
I lift my lantern high,
and though tethered to the dark,
it’s lured to the sky.