Heaven
I can often (sometimes) almost
feel it.
It’s not a place, not anywhere,
not heaven sent or given.
Sometimes it’s a soft sticky fig,
on the back of the tongue
or a color that should be painted
but nobody has yet.
It’s like the thought of home,
a wide ribbon of encircling rings
each of them a trick of the light,
but you know that light,
you know that presence,
it’s the smoky herbage of a love
beyond the desiring of it.
Then again it’s the soft smell
of autumnal woods
or simply just some noodle soup
she makes for you
when you’re tired and sick.
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