The Sign Starts a Clock
The sign starts a clock, grounded on paper.
Coldness fills the air; nervousness lasts only a little while.
Shoes untied while sitting in traffic, zoning out while I talk to the birds.
Changing seats for a new perspective, feeling the energy shift until I want my seat back.
Weird people, a cold world — acceptance is a long walk.
Residue stains like red wine on white carpet.
Everything happens on time.
Awareness comes through learning curves in turn breaking layers.
Now dry clay is molded with intention.
Feeling my feet on the ground, stepping over cracks in the pavement.
My heart beats to a song unwritten.
Letting my hair down from its updo position.
Ambiguous uncertainty while simply saying words I’ve already written.
Flashbacks of guilt from another’s pain and division.
Faith brings relief, like ice water on a hot day.
A lemonade stand at the corner — only 25 cents, already made.
Labor pain, forming a union.
Pain in the eyes leaves no room for confusion.
A laundry line in the yard.
There’s no place like home.
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