in praise of the still, small voice
that does not speak but grasps
you at the crux of your bones
and moves you into the day
when moments ago you thought you’d
spend all day afloat
on the ocean-bob of the couch
in praise of cupcakes and clarinets
in praise of the white pines
looming curved and sap-dripping
pinned by the wings of Aphrodite
to the world
Garden of Words 